


It's In The Stars

by teatales



Category: Good Omens (TV), High Society (1956)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Artist Crowley (Good Omens), Demisexual Crowley (Good Omens), Divorce, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Exes, Florist Crowley (Good Omens), Friends to Lovers, Gay Aziraphale (Good Omens), Getting Back Together, Getting Together, High Society (1956) - Freeform, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Humor, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Marriage, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Oh my god they were neighbours, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Philanthropist Aziraphale, Pining, Requited Love, Romantic Comedy, Weddings, eat the rich except this one time, in ch9
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:40:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 45,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23134072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teatales/pseuds/teatales
Summary: In 1950s London, wealthy philanthropist Aziraphale Lord is less than a fortnight away from his wedding to dull but equally wealthy businessman Gabriel Wright. Everything is running smoothly (as smooth as wedding preparations can ever be) until his ex-husband and now acclaimed artist Crowley Haven returns to the neighbourhood.If that isn’t enough, reporters have arrived to investigate both Aziraphale’s wedding, and Crowley’s latest exhibition.Crowley never stopped loving Aziraphale - he readily admits it, including to Aziraphale himself. Despite his engagement, despite his denial… could Aziraphale feel the same way?A High Society AU
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 126
Kudos: 94
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs, Good Omens Rom Com Event





	1. Have You Heard?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are lots of people to thank for making this fic happen. A big thank you at the top to my betas. First to handlebarstiedtothestars, for helping me build this thing from the ground up, and for listening to so much of my nonsense. Be sure to check out their fic [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23275330/chapters/55740334). And of course to the wonderful ZehWulf for getting stuck in and for already making this fic better in an infinite amount of ways. Thank you to Amanda for being an incredible admin!!! And finally, thank you to everyone in the discord who answered my questions or made me smile <3 I look forward to seeing everyone's stuff!
> 
> You don't need to have seen the movie to understand or read the fic (if you have - feel free to yell in the comments. if you want to - I can send you a link.) I've changed things have but overall it's the same main plot and vibe (more details [here](https://ineffable-anathema.tumblr.com/post/190528385971).) I've written the whole backstory to Aziraphale and Crowley's relationship which will be posted in alternating chapters. No period typical homophobia in this one because I'm gay and tired. Taken out all the period typical discrimination etc. except some toxic masculinity stuff still lingers around Aziraphale's dad (who's barely in it but a definite asshole) and a tiny bit from Gabriel. Anything major will be in the content warnings per chapter, and feel free to let me know if you need anything in particular. There will be eventual smut (and I really do mean eventual) but if that's not your thing, you will have extensive warnings, and it's not plot heavy so you'll be able to skip. 
> 
> I've had to fight a lot of impostor syndrome while working on this event, especially surrounded by such talented folks. This is the first proper plot heavy fic I've posted, and certainly the most ambitious and longest one, and I am more than a little scared to be posting. So in the words of a great man, please remember to prove love in the comments or when talking about this fic elsewhere. Thank you. 
> 
> cw: brief contemplation of drinking alcohol to cope with stress, shitty father/emotional abuse via letter 
> 
> Beginning of story...

Warlock cupped a hand around his mouth and the receiver, lest his words somehow escape and travel to unintended ears further in the house. 

The phone was picked up on the other line with a click and exhale. 

“Hellspawn to Plant Man, over. Come in, Plant Man,” Warlock whispered into it. 

A moment passed, and a wide grin bloomed on his face. “He’s back.” 

He didn’t wait for a response and hung up the phone. For a moment, Warlock was still in the chair, hand resting on the receiver. It felt like they were on the verge of something. Something good. 

He then leapt up to wander downstairs, whistling innocently all the while. 

Everything was going to plan. 

~~~~~ 

Mrs. Margaret Lord stood among crowded tables and shredded wrapping paper. She had attempted to arrange them in a loose circle at the edges of the room but they had been pushed and pulled as the days went on. The furniture and flotsam formed a haphazard maze that she had to carefully step over and around as she organised things. 

A wedding certainly was an overwhelming business. It felt like she had spent weeks cataloguing the gifts alone, let alone the months and months of planning for the big day. And now there was less than a fortnight until it arrived, yet there was still so much to do. 

Margaret had just begun to contemplate the benefits of starting the sherry this early in the afternoon when her youngest son entered the room. What a welcome distraction he was. 

“Hello, Warlock. You seem awfully happy about something,” she said warmly. She felt Warlock pulling away as he got older, and after the whole business with Aziraphale’s divorce (and her husband’s estrangement), she tried to keep them together as best she could. 

Warlock effortlessly stepped around some abandoned ribbon and gravitated to one of the more neatly organised tables near the left-hand side of the room. He began rifling through the contents in lieu of answering. 

Margaret sighed the sigh of a mother often tested and unfortunately used to this sort of behaviour. “Don’t mess up my system, please. I just finished that one.” Warlock’s hands stilled and slowly withdrew from the table, though he still held onto one of the trinkets. “And you didn’t respond to my question.” 

He frowned up at her under a messy fringe. He was definitely due for a haircut. “What question?”

“Well, what are you happy about, dear?” 

His gaze fell back down to peer closer at the shiny object in hand. “Can’t I just be happy?” he muttered under his breath. 

She closed her eyes briefly as she attempted to remain patient and graceful in the face of preteen angst. “Of course. Now, could you please help me squash this dreadful paper? Whoever wraps these things uses three times more than needed.” 

Warlock put down whatever he had been holding and walked over to the sea of discarded packaging. They fell silent as they gathered up the detritus and compressed it into rough balls. Warlock enjoyed the activity far more than Margaret did. 

As she straightened back up to stand, she had to suppress a groan. She was getting far too old for that sort of thing. “Thank you, you can put it over there in that spare box.” She gestured to the opposite corner from where Warlock had been browsing. 

Margaret watched in relief as Warlock did as she had asked, hands on her hips as she tried to catch her breath. 

As Warlock returned to investigating the various wedding presents, the door opened. A blond head of hair appeared, so much like hers once had been, and then the rest of her oldest son. 

“Aziraphale, dear, hello!” Margaret called out as he entered the room. She began the slow, perilous journey to reach him. “Another set of packages arrived today.” 

Aziraphale ambled over to her through the almost-clear central path amidst the tables and kissed her cheek in greeting. “Thank you, Mother. Hello, Warlock. Behaving yourself, are you?”

Warlock rolled his eyes to himself, his back still turned. “‘Behaving yourself, are you?’” he repeated in a snotty voice, no doubt what he thought to be an accurate imitation of Aziraphale. 

Refraining from giving his brother the satisfaction of a reply, Aziraphale simply pursed his lips and began to browse the new arrivals at the far end of the room. Attention gained, Warlock joined him nearby and snickered to himself. 

“With the amount of fire irons you’ve got, you would think you would realise how people feel about your _executive director._ ”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. They’re quite practical with how drafty this house gets, and I’m very grateful to be receiving them,” Aziraphale responded indignantly. How dare Warlock make insinuations about the character of his fiancé?

Warlock made to reply but was stopped short by their mother. “Weren’t we just discussing the topic of happiness, Warlock? And how people should be able to feel it without reason?” She fixed him with a steely stare. 

Warlock grumbled something under his breath that, fortunately for him, his mother didn’t quite make out.

“What was that?”

Warlock sighed. “Sorry, Azira,” he mumbled, not meeting his brother’s eye.

“Hmm.” Aziraphale didn’t respond to Warlock’s “apology.” Instead, he continued to fuss with the gifts in front of him, though they didn’t quite hold his attention. After a moment, he picked up a picture frame and let out a loud groan. 

“Again, Warlock?” Aziraphale asked. 

“What?” 

The brothers looked up at each other, now from either end of the long table. Aziraphale shook the frame in his hand. “This picture. I swear, this is the third time I’ve caught you sneaking it amongst the presents.”

Warlock shrugged. “If you didn’t want to keep it, then why haven’t you thrown it away already?”

Aziraphale’s mouth fell open into a perfect O of betrayal. He didn’t know what to say to that. His face flushed as he desperately tried to avoid contemplating the accusation. 

“That is not the point,” he instead replied in a scandalised voice. “The point is I do not wish to see pictures of my _ex-_ husband in the lead up to my wedding!”

“Why not?” Warlock retorted hotly. “Crowley’s face is nice.” 

“He’s got you there, dear,” Margaret added mildly from the sidelines. 

Aziraphale couldn’t believe what he was hearing, so soon after their argument too. “Don’t _you_ start, either!” Aziraphale objected with an accusatory finger. 

She narrowed her eyes shrewdly at the digit. “It’s quite rude to point, you know.” 

Aziraphale set down the frame with a gentleness discordant to his tone. His hands fell to his hips in exasperation at the mockery from his family. 

“Mother, I understand you were… fond, of Anthony,” he began, as patient as he could be given the circumstances. “You too, Warlock, though goodness knows why.” 

“Because he’s cool!” 

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. This was getting ridiculous. 

“But that is simply in the past, and we must _all_ move on,” he emphasised. His family had put up with a lot in the fallout from their divorce, certainly. Aziraphale had been a wreck for months (and still hadn’t quite recovered. He tended to fall into weeping at the sounds of “their song,” if the night sky was mentioned, and, on particularly bad days, if he caught sight of anyone with red hair.) But this, this _taunting,_ this favouring of his ex-husband, a man who had _broken his heart,_ stung. 

“I will not be swayed on the matter, particularly mere days from my wedding to Gabriel,” Aziraphale added. That was what they should all be focusing on, anyway. His handsome, intelligent, hardworking fiancé. Not that cruel, cowardly, bohemian, snake of a man. 

“And _that_ is final.”

A pointed silence fell in the room, and Warlock slouched away to examine a different pile of gifts on another one of the tables.

Aziraphale huffed out a breath and attempted to concentrate on the trinkets in front of him. Suddenly, they held little appeal after the inquisition he had faced. 

His eyes had almost entirely glazed over when he saw it, sticking out like a rather sore thumb among the pristine packages. 

Wrapped in all black—completely inappropriate for the occasion, of course—a small, square box, plain except the large _Lord_ inscribed on the front in silver ink. 

He picked it up in a steady hand, unsurprised but still disappointed at its light weight. 

“Speaking of bastards, here’s a gift from father,” Aziraphale announced, bitterness palpable in his voice. “Whatever could it be?” 

He didn’t notice how still his mother and Warlock became at the non sequitur. In fact, he took no notice at all, so fixed was he on the object in his hands. 

Aziraphale turned it over and unwrapped it with little flourish. It didn’t deserve more fuss than necessary.

Inside the box was a crisply folded piece of paper. He flicked it open and read it in uneasy silence. 

_“Son—_

_The news that you’re getting married again is hard to avoid—it’s plastered over every gossip rag no matter how much I try to ignore them. In such a little space of time, too. At least this one seems slightly more decent in that he has an actual job (unlike that deluded florist). No doubt you’ll be well looked after, if only financially. He’s far more accomplished than the last one. _

_Perhaps you’re finally becoming a real man—none of this weak, romantic nonsense that your mother let you get away with. It seems my job is done. I’ve taught you all that I can and it is now your turn to navigate the unsteady waters of life on your own using the wisdom I’ve shared with you.”_

It was unsigned, but only one man could be so cruel. 

Aziraphale couldn’t stop the hollow laugh from leaving his shaking mouth. 

“That’s one thing we agree on, at least. Gabriel.” Aziraphale refolded the note and put it down absentmindedly. The words _weak_ and _deluded_ and _real man_ echoed through the recesses of his mind. “He is successful, isn’t he?”

“Yes, dear,” Margaret agreed with a worried brow. 

“And handsome, too,” Aziraphale declared in a voice desperate for reassurance as he stepped closer to his mother. 

“He certainly is tall.” 

“And he loves me,” he added finally. The _unlike someone else_ went unsaid, though both he and his mother heard it loud and clear. 

“Of course he does. Very much.”

He grabbed her hands in his own. Something to tether him to the earth as he felt himself threatening to break into pieces. “Oh, I am terribly excited for this wedding,” Aziraphale crowed with a brittle smile. 

“Terribly,” repeated Warlock with far less enthusiasm as he slipped out the door. 

Aziraphale glanced over as he left with a frown but was quickly distracted by the distant rumblings of a vehicle approaching the house. 

“Gabriel isn’t due back for another half hour,” he mused after consulting his watch. “Whoever could that be?” 

Margaret shrugged as Aziraphale left to go to the front of the house. She tried to hold them all together but feared a rift was inevitable. 

~~~~~ 

Clarence, the butler, closed the front door and turned around just as Aziraphale rounded the corner. In his hands were a beautiful bunch of flowers. 

Aziraphale froze in place, halfway down the hall. Flowers. 

Clarence cleared his throat. “For your mother, Mister Lord.”

“I see.”

They stood at odds for a moment. Clarence seemed to wait for Aziraphale to say something else. Anything else. Aziraphale didn’t know what he was waiting for. What was he to say to this?

Eventually, Clarence gave a sharp nod and continued walking back towards the south parlour where Margaret still resided. 

As he walked away, Aziraphale looked on in a daze. He thought his mind would fill with questions, but instead it was eerily, painfully blank. He shook his head and then trailed behind like a lost puppy. Like he was still young enough to hang on to Clarence’s coattails as he performed his duties, rather than being the man of the house. 

He returned to the parlour just as his mother smiled down at the note that came with the bouquet. Clarence disappeared from the room with the professionalism required by his station. 

“Who are they from?” Aziraphale all but demanded. 

Margaret startled and attempted to suppress her smile. “Ah,” she said and tucked the note into her dress pocket. “Only a friend.” 

“A friend,” Aziraphale repeated dully as he took a step closer. “Which one?” 

“Hmm? Oh, the flowers are lovely, aren’t they?” she said and fussed with the bouquet and its placement on the small table. 

Aziraphale stalked over to her. “Mother. _Who_ are they _from_?” 

She bit her lip and, after a moment, reluctantly pulled out the note to show him.

“ _It’s good to be home. I look forward to catching up. Crowley,”_ Aziraphale read aloud and flinched at the familiar signature. “Crowley?” he shrieked. “He’s _back?_ ” he added with a slap to the piece of paper. _“_ Did you _know_ about this?” Aziraphale all but shoved the note in his mother’s face. 

Margaret took a step back. “Warlock _may_ have mentioned something about—”

“Warlock!” Aziraphale threw up his hands. “Oh, he is in for it later. My mother, receiving flowers from my ex-husband, on the eve of my wedding!” Aziraphale got lost in the hysteria and paced about the room with the undisciplined dramatics of a very poor Shakespearean actor. 

“Your wedding isn’t actually for another fortnight—” she tried to interject. It was no use; Aziraphale blazed with anger and steamrolled ahead of her. 

“I’m going over there to give him a piece of my mind,” he declared and turned back to her. “How dare he try to ruin my life again!” 

Margaret had no time to respond, as Aziraphale had already swept out the door and was on his way across the common green to Crowley’s. 

Warlock watched him leave from an upstairs window. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think? Kudos and comments make my day and I would love it if you left some. 
> 
> Talk to me on tumblr @ineffable-anathema 
> 
> [RE updating schedule: This fic is basically an exercise in free time vs mental illness. I've been made redundant and am isolating, but I also have depression and we're rapidly heading into winter. It's about two thirds written and my phenomenal (!) beta is working through it at the moment so in theory I just need to finish writing the uhhh actual AU. So, I can't promise an update schedule, but it WILL be finished eventually. Chapter count may go up if I cut some things in half. We'll see!]


	2. Till One Day You Happened To Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How it all began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'd by the glorious ZehWulf
> 
> Like I said last time, I'm alternating current events with the chronological story of Aziraphale and Crowley meeting and falling in love (so heed the time difference!) 
> 
> This is the very beginning of that journey. Enjoy.

_Approximately three years ago…_

Aziraphale Lord was beginning to be more than a little concerned about the prospect of his new neighbour. A Mr. AJ Haven was set to move in next week into the extensive mansion across the common from Aziraphale’s family’s own large estate. Aziraphale had heard of Mr. Haven only the previous summer. He’d caught sight of him in the papers, too. Untidy hair and strange accessories and all. He was supposedly a very talented florist—though why floristry deserved an exhibition in _Eden Gallery_ of all places, Aziraphale wasn’t sure. Although this was nothing to laugh at; the man was undoubtedly an _artist,_ in every incorrigible sense of the word.

It had only taken a few inquiries along the grapevine to find out more about him. Mr. Haven had inherited his wealth from a now-deceased uncle, and he had chosen to spend his life not in any respectable career but in the pursuit of this passion for glorified flower arranging. It was far too easy to deduce what sorts of activities he must get up to in the meantime. A man of those looks and that money, with no responsibilities or cares to worry about? Aziraphale shuddered to think about it. 

His new residence was a grand old home indeed, and Aziraphale was sad to see it wasted on such a… modern individual. He prayed that it wouldn’t be destroyed by ill-advised renovations, though the reputation of the neighbourhood would likely plummet by association with Mr. Haven’s déclassé occupation alone. 

Throughout the past month, various movers and contractors had milled about, watched on by Aziraphale and his younger brother, Warlock, from within the boundaries of their own property. Warlock thought being a floral artist was “awesome,” and their mother reminded Aziraphale several times not to judge Mr. Haven before they had actually met. Didn’t he always complain about how the media reported on his own personal life? Aziraphale did not dignify those comments with a response, nor would he be dissuaded from the conclusions he had drawn.

~~~~~

AJ “Crowley” Haven was damn excited to finally be moving into his new place. His “family” home held far too many memories of growing up, and although he had spent the years of his early adulthood galavanting around the country, he still couldn’t quite shake the past. The house—well, mansion—he had purchased was absolutely _gorgeous._ It was situatedin the nicest neighbourhood and far too big to be living alone in, but apparently that was the “done thing” for someone of his status. It had sprawling grounds and, most importantly, already-established greenhouses. They were immense glass structures, bordered with iron and capped with gently sloping roofs. Crowley had fallen in love as soon as he had seen them. He didn’t grow all his plants himself—that would be ridiculous—but he enjoyed gardening as much as he did arranging, and it was convenient to have a place to experiment. His hands itched with the plans that bloomed in his mind for the rest of the garden. Soon enough, the place was his. 

Crowley needed a little stability in his life—though he wouldn’t admit it to anyone, not even to himself. A fresh start and a base of operation; the possibility of a consistent social circle—he would be truly coming into his own. He had heard things about the swells of the area—who hadn’t? That they were prim and proper and more than stuck up. That they drank like fishes and gossiped like noisy parrots. That they were out of touch with the real world, with real people—what was important and what _actually_ mattered. But people said things about him, too. And they were far less kind and far more public about it. Hopefully his neighbours were just pleasant people with ridiculous amounts of money. Perhaps they would be quirky; he could live with that. If he couldn’t, the space between houses was large enough that he could avoid them. 

Finally, he was moving in. The hired movers had done a good enough job, and he had tipped them accordingly. In the coming weeks Crowley would probably rearrange everything to his fancy, but for now his possessions were in the right rooms and that was the main thing since getting around the house sometimes felt like being trapped in an M.C. Escher painting. Since Crowley was well-suited to change, he slept like a baby the very first night, despite the unfamiliar surroundings.

Still, the next morning he woke up early in his eagerness to get at the flowers. A bunch for his neighbours would be just the thing to make a good first impression. 

Though it was a fancy area, one of his favourite flower markets was held only a short drive away. Crowley threw off the covers and rushed out the door and into the Bentley. 

The market was a success. Crowley drove away an hour later with beautiful irises, poppies, and orchids—pretty affordable for this time of year, too. He shoved only a plain piece of toast in his mouth on his way as he carted the blooms into his studio. It was time to get to work. 

After a generous half hour, Crowley made a few final adjustments and stepped back. He nodded to himself. It was balanced and full enough for the size of the bunch. Not too extravagant—though he knew where he had moved too, he didn’t want to show off just yet. It was as perfect as he could make it. 

As Crowley looked up properly for the first time in a while and stretched his back, he realised it had become much lighter outside than when he started. Coffee, then neighbours. Solid plan. 

~~~~~

Aziraphale sighed and put down his planner. People liked to joke that being an heir wasn’t a “real job,” but tell that to the headache pounding his skull. His diary for the next three months was already packed, and then suddenly the Michaels were holding a three-day gala and luncheon. He loathed the fake “meeting and greeting,” but it was a necessary evil to retain support for his philanthropic causes, which actually _did_ matter (unlike the extended and painful excuse for gossiping and matchmaking that the events were sure to be). He closed his eyes and rubbed at the back of his neck in hopes of easing the throbbing. It didn’t do anything. 

As Aziraphale contemplated whether it was too early to whet his whistle or if he should simply go lie down in a dark room for a while, Clarence walked in. 

“There’s a Mr. Haven at the front door, sir, requesting to meet his ‘new neighbours.’ Shall I let him in?” 

Just what Aziraphale needed: Another social obligation and the pressure to be nice and respectable. Wonderful. He sighed to himself. He might as well get this over with now, with the way his calendar was shaping up. He had been meaning to send a cordial invitation over for afternoon tea, anyway. This would save him the stationary. 

“Yes, fine,” he answered and fiddled with his clothes as he stood up. It wouldn’t do to be seen lounging about the place in wrinkled fabric. 

Clarence returned, followed by a man with the brightest red hair Aziraphale had ever seen. Ink hadn’t done it justice, it seemed. Thin and lanky, he looked to be about Aziraphale’s age, though he had the air of someone older—something about his jaw, Aziraphale thought. His clothes were dark and quite fitting. He wore no jacket (though Clarence might have taken it already), and the whole thing was topped off with shiny, possibly snakeskin shoes. He wore sunglasses (even though they were comfortably indoors) and a large, inviting smile. In his hands he held a simple vase with a beautiful arrangement of flowers. 

Aziraphale did his best to appear friendly and walked over. “Ah, Mr. Haven. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” 

That smile appeared to grow even wider. “Call me Crowley, all my friends do. And you must be Aziraphale.” 

“Aziraphale Lord, yes.” Up close, Aziraphale noticed faint freckles dotted around Crowley’s face, almost like stars. They made him look almost boyish, even next to the harsh lines of his stylish sunglasses. The contrast was… transfixing. He mentally shook himself to focus on the situation at hand. Now was not the time to get distracted. Perhaps the headache was affecting him more than he thought. Aziraphale cleared his throat. 

“Are those….?” he asked, hands outstretched towards the bouquet. 

“Oh, yeah! Yeah, they’re for you and the family and whatever,” Crowley rambled as he gave them over. “As a bit of a ‘howdy, neighbour!’ kind of thing, you know.”

“Howdy,” Aziraphale said dryly, more to the flowers than to Crowley. They really were stunning. He cleared his throat again and looked back up. “Thank you, they are lovely. Did you arrange them yourself?” he inquired politely though he knew full well Crowley’s profession. 

Crowley’s hands had wandered into the pockets of his trousers. Though he stood in the middle of the room, he had the air of a man slouched casually against a wall. It was a fascinating accomplishment. “Yeah, I did. ‘S what I do, professionally, I mean. Flowers.” 

“Ah, I do believe I heard something about that somewhere or other.” They stared blankly at each other. “Thank you again for such a thoughtful gift. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other around.” 

Crowley clicked and pointed a finger at him. “You can count on it,” he assured, friendly warmth palpable in his voice. 

Aziraphale smiled tightly and began to walk towards the French doors at the back of the room, which opened up to the common between their houses. 

Crowley startled and followed. “Oh, right.” They crossed the short distance in silence. “Seeya, Aziraphale,” he said when they had reached the threshold. 

“Goodbye, Mr. Haven,” he replied mildly with a small nod. 

Crowley stopped and turned to raise a perfect eyebrow above the border of his dark glasses.

“Crowley,” he corrected. He looked at Aziraphale for a moment then hit the doorway with the flat of his hand. Something seemed to satisfy him, and that damn grin appeared again before Crowley walked away across the immaculate lawn. 

Aziraphale couldn’t help but watch him go. He was stuck there, frozen in the doorway, as he waited until the faint speck of Crowley disappeared into the distance. 

“Sir?” 

He startled at Clarence’s sudden appearance, and water sloshed around in the vase he was still holding, threatening to spill over the sides. 

“Is everything alright, sir?” 

Aziraphale turned back to look out the open door. Crowley was nowhere to be seen. The landscape was as picture-perfect as ever. 

“Everything is fine,” he said with his most charming smile. “Perfectly fine.” 

Clarence nodded and left to complete the rest of his duties for the day. Aziraphale was left by himself in the doorway, clutching the vase. 

He examined the flowers again. They were such pretty things, even from a strange man such as Crowley. Aziraphale turned to consider where to place them in the large living room—perhaps on the end table by the Chesterfield?—when his mother walked in. 

“Those _are_ lovely, dear!” Margaret cooed. “Wherever did you get them from?” 

Aziraphale’s grip on the ceramic tightened as he placed them on the table. “Ah. Our new neighbour, Mr. Haven, dropped them off.” 

Margaret smiled as she came closer. “Oh, isn’t that very sweet of him. He must be a nice man to think of such a thing,” she said firmly, clearly pleased both with the gesture and proving Aziraphale wrong.

To hide his reaction to that particular statement, Aziraphale fussed with arranging the position of the vase and the already perfect flowers within it. “Yes,” he echoed. “Nice.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> M.C. Escher (as referenced in this chapter) is the "infinite staircase guy." (Well, that's basically what I googled to find the reference.)


	3. More or Less Aloof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A confrontation. A confession. A reconnection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'd by the spectacular ZehWulf <3
> 
> thanks to everyone who's been leaving such lovely comments, they really help with my motivation and publishing more frequently :)
> 
> back in the present day, folks! probably my favourite chapter so far. things are getting interesting... enjoy!

Though Aziraphale hadn’t made the trip in many months, it was all too easy for him to tread the familiar path over to Crowley’s house. He was absolutely indignant. How dare Crowley, after causing Aziraphale so much hurt, come back to haunt him like this? And his family knew about it, too! That was something Aziraphale had to worry about later. For now, he had to give Crowley a thorough talking to. 

Aziraphale faltered slightly as he made his way through the copse of trees. It looked just the same. Although Crowley hadn’t returned for quite some time—he was away working on the continent, though Aziraphale obviously wasn’t paying attention to that—it had been maintained well. It appeared as if nothing had changed, really. The same delightful windows obscured by the same utilitarian flower boxes. The last time Aziraphale had seen them, they were filled with blooming pansies, but now they were barren. 

An uneasy feeling settled in Aziraphale’s stomach as he slowly mounted the front stairs. Much of his anger left him, replaced by something he didn’t want to put a name to. _(Guilt and shame and regret.)_ He pushed out a sigh as he turned the knob of the ridiculously ornate door. It was locked, of course. Crowley had occasionally forgotten the important habit—much to his housekeeper’s horror—but it seemed he had learned his lesson. 

With a silent apology to his trousers, Aziraphale bent down to examine the collection of ornate rocks surrounding a nearby succulent. Nothing had changed at all, then. The dark grey stone to the left still held the spare key. Aziraphale retrieved it and used it to near-silently open the door. 

If he thought the exterior had taken him back, the inside threw him into a slew of memories. It was a place that was almost his home, once.

But he was a new man now, and he would be making a new home.

Mary, the housekeeper and resident thorn in Crowley’s side, happened to be crossing the hall off the large entryway just as Aziraphale pocketed the key. 

She stilled as she caught sight of him, and he froze in turn. He really hadn’t thought this far ahead. 

It only took a moment for professionalism to take over. 

“Mr. Lord,” she greeted as she took a few steps closer. “We weren’t expecting you.” 

“Hmm, well, yes. Where is he, Mary?”

She hesitated only a moment. It was imperceptible, really, beneath the layers of businesslike civility as she constructed a believable, if not entirely true, answer. “Mr. Haven is currently occupied. I can go and check if he’s able to see you, if you’d like,” she responded with a pleasant smile. 

“Mr. Haven,” Aziraphale muttered with a snort. “And even if _you_ haven’t been expecting me, I’m certain Crowley won’t be surprised at my arrival.” The stunt with the flowers guaranteed it. 

Aziraphale hadn’t noticed the slip up, the fall-back into use of his ex’s preferred name, as he worked himself up into a full frothing rant. “I still know this house as well as you do, and I _will_ find him eventually, so why don’t you save us both the time—” 

“Hello, angel.” It hadn’t been hard for Crowley to sneak up the corridor and into the foyer, as Mary had moved to the side and had Aziraphale’s full attention. He stood casually: hands comfortably shoved in his trouser pockets, feet bare, and no glasses. 

Aziraphale stopped his tirade with a sharp click of his teeth. He then opened his mouth, then closed it again, a frown now on his face. It was easy to be brave when not face-to-face with the man who broke one’s heart. It was harder to do anything but ache at the sight of Crowley after so many long months. 

Once he ceased his brief but accurate impression of a codfish, Aziraphale cleared his throat and pointedly looked at Mary, then back to Crowley. “I wish to speak with you. _Privately_ ,” he emphasised, as if his feelings towards the housekeeper weren’t apparent. 

Both Mary and Crowley developed twin smirks at that, though hers was a touch more subtle, and Aziraphale had the sudden queasy feeling that he’d just lost a game he didn’t know he had been playing. 

“That’s very neighbourly of you,” Crowley said. Aziraphale simply glared at him in response. “The study, then?” 

Crowley nodded at Mary before he turned and walked away, no doubt expecting Aziraphale to follow. Aziraphale gave her a look of displeasure as he passed by. 

As they reached the study door, Crowley opened it with a flourish and stepped back to let Aziraphale in first. It would have been gentlemanly if not for the smirk Crowley was still wearing. 

Another thing just the same: the dappled sunlight coming through the study windows made the wood glow. Aziraphale instinctively retreated away from Crowley’s ornate chair and desk. It left him standing, but that suited him just fine. He wasn’t comfortable here, nor did he wish to look like he was. 

Crowley easily walked over to perch on the edge of his desk with his arms folded. He leaned on it for a moment, then changed his mind and wiggled to sit on top of it. Aziraphale looked away as he settled. Those hips were still a source of temptation, it seemed. 

Before Aziraphale could get too in his head with regretting his behaviour, his speech, his existence, Crowley broke the silence. “You look good.” 

Aziraphale’s head whipped up at the remark. It appeared that Crowley was being honest, yet Aziraphale still glared. That was not at all an appropriate thing to say at a time like this. 

Crowley only rolled his eyes. His captivating, golden eyes. Aziraphale had to look away again. “That doesn’t scare me, angel. You used to, but not anymore.” 

That certainly knocked the wind out of Aziraphale’s proverbial sails. How could Crowley break him apart with a few mere words? It wasn’t worth dwelling on. He simply had to persevere with the true reason that brought him over in the first place. “I wish to know what possible reason you have for coming back to this house so close to my wedding,” Aziraphale gritted out in an icy tone. He spoke to the wall rather than his ex-husband. 

“Not everything is about you, you know. I’m here on business. I’m quite the established artist—” Aziraphale scoffed at the notion while Crowley continued. “—and I’m working on my latest exhibition. Where better than my home base? And I have a favour for a friend, though you needn’t know about that,” he finished in a low tone. 

Well, Aziraphale wasn’t going to buy that for a second. His shoulders rose to hover somewhere around his ears as he continued. “You can’t fool me, Anthony. You’ve done this on purpose to interfere with my wedding. It’s cruel and vindictive.”

“Well, _that’s_ not very nice of you to say,” he replied in a playful tone. 

“You always said I was a bit of a bastard.” Aziraphale glanced at Crowley and looked away again at the fleeting expression of hurt he thought he saw on Crowley’s face. That uneasiness in his stomach returned. 

Silence fell as they were both swept away by the memories. Nights shared together, a bottle of wine between them. Aziraphale’s loosened bow tie and his tongue, too. It all spilled out: what he really thought of his peers, and his family. The people so concerned with image and money. How he loathed to be a part of them. The rare occasions where he spoke of his father. Few and far between, but all the more valuable. Crowley always loved it: the honesty, the authenticity. Ultimately, it meant Aziraphale was being himself. Crowley knew it wasn’t a side of Aziraphale that anyone else got to see.

That was long in the past, now. Aziraphale knew far better than to let people get that close to him. 

“Yeah, I guess I did,” Crowley muttered and pushed out a sigh. “It’s not as if I’m hiding it, Aziraphale. That was always more your thing than mine. I am back for the reasons I said, but I guess that’s not good enough.” He crossed his arms. “Since you want to know so very badly—and you know how I feel about knowledge—I’m still in love with you, and I don’t want you to get married,” Crowley declared with a seemingly casual shrug. 

Aziraphale did a small turn, to Crowley and away and back again. He scoffed and placed his hands on his hips with faux confidence. “What am I meant to say to that?” He wanted it to come out blasé, but he sounded almost hysterical, even to his own ears. 

A bitter laugh rang out in the room. “Nothing. Nothing at all. You’re the one who came here in the first place, angel.” Crowley drew his legs up onto the desk to sit cross-legged. Aziraphale had never met a man with such disrespect for furniture. 

His eyes closed briefly at the pet name. A dull throb of longing rang out inside him. How he wished Crowley didn’t have such power over him. “Isn't it enough you almost ruined my life without ruining my wedding?”

“I didn't try to ruin your life, angel,” Crowley said patiently. 

Aziraphale turned to him in absolute frustration. “Stop calling me that!” 

“I know you didn't try to ruin mine,” Crowley continued. “But you were the boss, you know? I was yours from the very beginning. Then you became scared and wanted me to fit in with who you thought we should be. Who you thought I should be, so your world wouldn’t fall apart.” 

“Is it wrong of me to want my husband to stay close to home? To not be… gallivanting the world, doing who-knows-what? I understand your art, Anthony, but surely it isn’t sustainable, with changing fashions and such.” Aziraphale desperately tried to clutch at straws to scramble onto the higher ground. 

Crowley popped off the desk and slowly, carefully walked towards Aziraphale. It gave him plenty of time to move away, but all he could do was stare as Crowley came to a stop mere centimetres away from him. “It’s called trust, Aziraphale. It’s a thing spouses are meant to have in each other.” 

They were so close together Aziraphale could feel the gentle breeze of Crowley’s breath. He could see the etchings of crow’s feet next to his golden eyes, those damn freckles scattered across his face. It hurt, to be so close but to be almost strangers.

“Go away, Anthony. Can’t you please just leave me alone?” Aziraphale cried, hands thrown up in the air. 

“I tried, angel. Eleven months was my limit. I’m just weak, I guess. Always have been, for you,” Crowley finished softly. 

The trembling in Aziraphale’s lip threatened to become uncontrollable as he studied Crowley’s face and processed his words. The confrontation was too much, and he strode out of the room without so much as a goodbye. 

~~~~~ 

Crowley watched Aziraphale leave—a sight all too familiar—then left in the other direction to go to the garden. Suddenly the walls felt too close together. 

He ambled over to a bench and plonked himself down. That had been better and worse than he had expected. Better, because neither of them descended into proper shouting (or crying, on Crowley’s part). Worse, because he was still completely, ineffably besotted, and it was all rather quite pathetic. 

He only had a few moments of private wallowing in the mocking sunshine when he was interrupted by hesitant footsteps. 

“Crowley?” It was Warlock. His voice only a touch older, not in the full throes of puberty yet. Crowley hadn’t forgotten him for a moment. 

He lifted his face from his hands. “Hey, kid. Wanna sit?” 

He nodded and slowly sunk down to sit next to Crowley on the bench. 

“I don’t think your brother likes me very much,” Crowley admitted with a brittle smile. He tried to aim for a joking tone and fell quite short. 

“Well _I_ do,” Warlock said hotly. 

That made Crowley turn and face him. “You do? After...” He waved a hand in a vague, all-encompassing motion. “After everything?”

Warlock didn’t hesitate at all. “Yep.” 

Crowley’s smile turned small and genuine. “Thanks.” 

He didn’t know what he did to deserve that. After the marriage ended, Crowley hadn’t really kept in contact with Warlock. Aziraphale didn’t want him to, and he had tried to respect that as best he could. Crowley still sent him the occasional postcard from wherever he was—working or drinking himself insensible or both. Casual, brief things as to not overly trespass the boundary he was already crossing. 

“Why do you think he likes Gabriel, anyway? He seems like a wanker,” Warlock said in the mystified tone that kids get when things don’t align with their worldview. 

“Warlock! Wherever did you learn language like that?” 

“You, of course.” 

“Still a little hellspawn, huh?” Warlock shrugged. Crowley threw up his hands in acquiescence. “I don’t know. Aziraphale just likes… dependability, I guess.” 

Warlock snorted loudly. “I don’t think _Gabriel_ is very _dependable._ ” 

“He’s not that bad, kid. I’m sure one day Gabriel Wright will be president of Lord & Smith Incorporated.” 

“As if that’s hard. Father was president of Lord & Smith.” He became tense and silent after the mention of his father. 

Crowley pretended not to notice. “There’s more work in it than I think you’re privy to, Warlock.” At this point, he wasn’t sure if he was convincing Warlock or himself. 

“I don’t care. He always walks around like he’s in charge—like, of the _whole world_ , not just the company. It’s ridiculous. And he always smiles like this:” Warlock plastered a shark-like smile onto his face. “Like he doesn’t know how to be a real person.” 

Crowley studied him for a moment. “You know, for a second I thought you were Gabriel Wright himself.” 

Warlock slumped back down to the bench, falling out of that inhumanly perfect posture. “Ugh.”

“Ah, no, you’re Warlock.”

He rolled his eyes. “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Crowley parroted back. Warlock stuck his tongue out at him. Cheeky bugger. “You doing okay though, kid?” he asked in a softer voice. “With everything?” 

Warlock suddenly found the ground near his trainers very interesting. “I thought you and Azira would be together forever. Guess that was pretty stupid of me, huh?” 

“If that makes you stupid, then I’m king stupid, yeah?” Crowley hesitantly threw an arm around Warlock’s shoulders, giving him plenty of time to reject it. He cuddled up close to Crowley instead, and wasn’t that just a heavy boot on the confetti that was his heart? “Hope isn’t stupid, Warlock. It’s human to hope, to want things to work out. We just can’t always make it happen.” 

Crowley sighed. He knew it was true, and that meant Aziraphale would never be his. “But your brother is happy, and he’s going to marry a nice man.” Nice. A four-letter word, that was. “That doesn’t mean we can’t hang out, though, okay?” 

Warlock finally looked up at him. “Do you mean it?” 

“Course,” Crowley replied, tipping their heads together closer for a moment. He then sat up and held Warlock at arm’s length. “You think free weeding comes along that often?” 

“Crowley!” 

“What? You think I wasn’t using you for your gardening skills?” 

“How dare you!” 

Crowley waved him off with a grin. “Yeah, yeah. Take it up with my lawyer.” They smiled at each other for a moment. “But seriously, kid. You’re not going to get rid of me that easily. I know I kind of disappeared for a while there, but I’m back now, and I’m always here if you need anything, okay?” 

Warlock’s happy expression melted away. “But you left.”

“Yeah, I did,” Crowley agreed with a deep sigh. He really didn’t want to cry in front of Warlock. 

“So how can I trust you to ‘be there,’ when you’ll just leave again?”

He swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Good question, kid. Look...” Crowley tried to search for the right words. “I don’t want to bullshit you just because you’re an infant, but unfortunately there are things you’re just not going to understand till your older. But for now… 

“Aziraphale wanted me to leave. And as much as I wanted to, y’know, hang around like a bad smell, cling on like the pathetic creature I am… I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. I love him too much, and he pushed me away too much for me to stay.” 

“Oh.” 

“So as much as I wanted to stick around, stay here, see you, it wasn’t possible. And I know I always tell you nothing is impossible, but. I guess it _was_ possible, it would just hurt all of us, in the end. Maybe I should promise you to never leave without a good enough reason?” 

“What counts as good enough, though?” 

“Ah, hellspawn, I taught you well. How about we work out the terms and conditions at a later time, yeah? Now, is there anything else you wanted to talk about, or shall we get started on the dandelions?”

Warlock considered the ground in silence for a few moments. 

“I saw your exhibition, when you were away. It wasn’t the same. Mother took me cause I missed you so much—” He stopped himself, embarrassed. “I don’t know how Aziraphale gave you up.”

Crowley seriously kicked himself for not putting on his sunglasses before he came outside. He looked away in hopes of obscuring his suddenly misty eyes. At least someone didn’t think he was completely hopeless/unlovable/alone. 

“He didn’t give me up. He gave up on us. There’s a difference.” Crowley knew that to be true above all else. He stood up and turned back to Warlock. “C’mon, the garden won’t weed itself. Save the sorrows for another day.” 


	4. I'm A Good Guy, Show Me Mercy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You are cordially invited to the house-warming party of Crowley Haven..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'd by the outstanding ZehWulf 
> 
> okay so I stuffed up the timelines a little in the previous flashback chapter. Aziraphale and Crowley met about ~three years ago (not two) before the first chapter aka the lead up to Aziraphale and Gabriel's wedding. who even knows what time is any more tho. i changed that one and hopefully will put the correct dates in the following chapters. we are still moving forward in a linear fashion 
> 
> also I haven't really explained Crowley's art and we won't actually see any of it for a few more chapters, so please check out the pinterest board in the end notes if you're confused because boy howdy trying to get people to understand the chaos of my brainzone is difficult. you also might be confused over Crowley's name. in the film his character is named CK Dexter Haven and everyone calls him Dexter, some sites have Dexter-Haven hyphenated, I'm bad at reading and remembering things etc. etc. so his wallet name in the fic technically Anthony Haven, Crowley is a nickname for now, might be a middle name, might have other hilarious origins. we'll see but basically Crowley is his preferred name and I'm probably overthinking this all ay 
> 
> sidenote im posting this less than a week after the last chapter! depression whomst? 
> 
> enjoy y'all and as always comments make this thing easier to churn out so y'know keep that in mind <3

_Approximately three years ago..._

Aziraphale’s impression of Mr. Haven didn’t quite change in the following months of getting to know him. His initial judgement had been a little harsh, he would admit, but after their meeting all he could think of was how odd the man was. Odd in that he didn’t fit into Aziraphale’s view of the world or, rather, his world and that of their neighbourhood. 

The Lord family were soon invited to Mr. Haven’s housewarming party, just shy of a month of his moving in. No doubt it would be an interesting affair. Aziraphale’s father had declined to attend, which was of course understandable as he had a company to run. He didn’t have the time for such frivolity. His mother would be coming, which removed the need for Aziraphale to scrounge up a date. The thought of calling up an old flame made him feel queasy. 

Warlock had begged to come. It was all so _interesting_ —their new neighbour, the promise of a party. He was far too young to stay up that late though, much to his annoyance. It was a relief to Aziraphale—he couldn’t keep track of his brother _and_ properly scrutinise his neighbour at the same time. 

The day soon arrived, heralded by a flurry of activity across the common. Caterers, decorators, a band, Aziraphale assumed. He had attended and organised enough soirées to know the extent of people-power needed for success. Aziraphale certainly didn’t envy Mr. Haven’s position, especially as he was still new to the neighbourhood and wouldn’t yet know the best people to hire. 

As the sun began to set, Aziraphale had seen the house light up through the trees. It seemed very bright indeed. Nevermind, he would be there soon enough. 

Aziraphale donned his favourite suit for the occasion: pale blue with a tartan bow tie. He had an inkling that a new outfit wouldn’t be required. Or, more accurately, wouldn’t be appreciated at an occasion such as this. He fastened his cufflinks and checked his reflection in the mirror a final time, then wandered off to find his mother. 

She was already downstairs, alternatingly fussing with her purse and speaking to Warlock, who seemed determined still to go with them to the party. She looked beautiful in her champagne gown, but even more so when she straightened up and beamed at the sight of him. 

Aziraphale crossed the final stairs and greeted her with a cheek kiss. She held onto him for a moment longer. 

“You look lovely, dear. So handsome,” she whispered into his ear. 

He stepped back to examine her properly. “You’re beautiful.” 

“Thank you.” She turned back to Warlock. “You’re not coming with us, Warlock, and that is final. Go back with Tracy now, please.” Marjorie “Tracy” Potts, Warlock’s eccentric nanny-cum-babysitter, returned to the foyer from wherever she had been. Probably applying another bright slash of lipstick. After some fussing, Warlock took her hand and was led away back to his rooms. 

Margaret checked her purse one final time and snapped it with a happy sigh. As they walked out the door, Aziraphale offered up his arm for her to take. “Once more unto the breach?” 

She patted his arm and rolled her eyes. “It’s a party, Aziraphale, not a battle.” 

He snorted in disagreement, but kept quiet. 

The glow Aziraphale had seen before grew brighter as they approached the property. As they rounded the corner, however, it was like nothing he had ever witnessed 

The whole front garden was aglow with lights. In all the bushes, around the trunks of trees. It was magical, ethereal, and Aziraphale couldn’t help the gasp of surprise that left his mouth. 

His mother smiled at him as they got closer, but said nothing. 

Aziraphale knew the house well. He had been friendly with their former neighbours, often coming over for a drink or two on summer evenings. And he had inspected it once it was put on the market, of course. He had always been a curious (nosy) person. But with the sounds and sights of it being occupied and now a _home,_ it had been transformed. 

There was no staff member to greet them at the door or check their names. That was the first confirmation that Mr. Haven did things… differently. Guests wandered in and out as they pleased, clutching glasses and each other’s arms. They all seemed quite jovial, and Aziraphale nodded at the few familiar faces he recognised. Aziraphale and Margaret followed the sounds and smells of the party into the mansion, and came to the large room that appeared to be the centre of the gathering. It was a few moments before Aziraphale could take it all in. 

On one side, there were long tables of drinks and hors d'oeuvres. Stacks of small plates bordered the food. Staff members stood behind the tables to assist and answer questions, but nobody was in a distinct queue. One could approach from any angle and wander away again. It was all rather uncivilised. However, Aziraphale did catch sight of some of the options available, and the oysters didn’t look half bad. 

The drinks section took up about a third of the table. It seemed Aziraphale was correct in his estimation of the types of activities Mr. Haven liked to indulge in. 

Aziraphale tore his eyes away from the caviar to study the rest of the gathering. Half of the converted ballroom (it wouldn’t do to call the site of _this_ revelry a ballroom) was filled with similar long tables. There weren’t any place cards in sight, no carefully selected seating chart at all. Heiresses intermingled with comedians; musicians laughed with ministers. The lack of dress code was obvious, too, in the variety of formality that guests were dressed in. The rest of the space was dedicated to the dance floor, bordered by the stage and band, blasting out jazz music. 

And then there were the decorations. 

If Aziraphale hadn’t walked through the front door himself, he could have sworn they were still outside. All around the room were flowers and leaves, adorning every surface. Dripping down from the ceiling like stalactites in every colour of the rainbow. Centrepieces running down the long tables where people sat. Vines crawling across the walls. It almost felt like they were in a strange sort of rainforest. Aziraphale half-expected Titania to appear, and she wouldn’t have looked out of place, either. The air was filled with the sweet scent of blooms, and the lighting from the entrance continued on, too, casting a warm yellow glow from amongst the plants. 

Margaret spotted some of her friends and drifted away as Aziraphale went to fetch them drinks. He personally needed a strong one. The final notes of the current song finished, and the dancers and observers applauded. He ordered a scotch just as a familiar figure sauntered over to talk to the section of staff in front of him. 

“Mr. Haven?”

The figure turned. “Aziraphale! I thought I told you to call me Crowley, hmm?” He corrected easily. “I didn’t expect to see you here,” Crowley then said, same lopsided grin from weeks ago plastered on his face.

Aziraphale bristled at the implication. “Why not?”

Crowley shrugged. “Doesn’t seem your sort of thing. Aren’t you into books?”

Aziraphale’s bristles turned to spikes. “I have a wide variety of interests, I’ll have you know, and often attend parties, among other events. Besides, it’s the right thing to do. It’s neighbourly.”

“Neighbourly, right, yeah,” he replied absentmindedly and gestured the member of waitstaff away. After they retreated, Crowley turned back to Aziraphale. “Hey, look, I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m really glad you came.”

Aziraphale did his best to study the face obscured by the dark glasses. Crowley did seem honest, at least, even if it came at inopportune times. He took a long sip of the bitter drink the staff member had left him. 

“Of course that’s what you meant. Well, yes, I’m here. Oh, and my mother,” he suddenly remembered and turned to face where she had been sitting down. She was no longer there, and his gaze tracked across the room to find her swinging about the dancefloor. “Over there.” 

Aziraphale turned back as Crowley nodded enthusiastically. “Fantastic! Everything’s free, so, y’know, have at it.” Crowley gestured to the table between them. Aziraphale opened his mouth to reply.

_“And now, to share a few words with you all, our generous host, Crowley Haven!”_

Applause rang throughout the room at the announcement. 

Crowley cursed under his breath and skirted around the end of the table. “Gotta run, angel,” he said. “See you around!” he added over his shoulder before he was absorbed by the crowd. 

“Angel?” Aziraphale mouthed to himself as he stood there, alone, at the edge of the room. What a strange man indeed. 

~~~~~

Privately, Crowley thought that the housewarming party was a success. Everything had been set up mostly on time, the food was excellent, the band—Hell’s Bells—were personal friends of his. Well, acquaintances. Well, former and possibly current enemies. Semantics. And the decorations, of course, were phenomenal. He had designed them all himself though had left it to the contractors to assemble; falling off a ladder was probably a bad omen in a new house, or something. 

All in all he was happy with the turnout, though he still didn’t know many of the guests. Settling in and planning the party had taken up so much of the past month that he had barely spoken two words to everyone he had invited. Everyone seemed pleased, though, and that’s what mattered in the end. A good impression, the start of building his reputation to be how _he_ wanted to be seen. 

Crowley had just wandered over to talk to Jonathan, head of catering, to check how everything was going. He tried not to get in anyone’s way, but he always wanted to ensure the staff were doing well. Their conversation was interrupted by his name being called.

Aziraphale stood there in a beautiful blue suit that brought out his twinkling eyes. What a pleasant surprise indeed. 

“Aziraphale! I thought I told you to call me Crowley, hmm? I didn’t expect to see you here,” Crowley said, his smile straining his cheeks. Shit, was he being too eager? 

Apparently he was, or he said something wrong, because Aziraphale’s polite expression morphed into one of offense. Crowley did his best to backpedal as much as he could. He _was_ glad that Aziraphale had come, incredibly so. 

Crowley had never been one for keeping up with the news, but it was hard to miss Aziraphale’s lovely face plastered across the pages. It seemed like he was in there at least once a week, always at some fundraising event or auction for another good cause. 

Their first meeting had been interesting. Aziraphale had seemed a little… standoffish, to say the least. Still, he had been polite and gorgeous, and Crowley had nearly swooned. Not that he would tell anyone that. Not that he would hardly admit that to himself. Crowley was determined to win Aziraphale over. Somehow. They were neighbours, and neighbours should at the very least be friends. Right? 

Their disaster of a conversation was cut short by Crowley being forced to complete necessary hosting duties. He was thankful it saved him from further embarrassment but was more than a little peeved at the interruption. 

He fixed his best I’m-in-charge-and-know-what-I’m-doing-face and took his leave. 

But not before putting his foot right in it. 

“Gotta run, angel,” Crowley said. His heart immediately climbed its way into his throat. “See you around!” he added in hopes of playing it off. 

As he walked to the stage, he kept smiling but internally was swearing up a storm. Best case scenario was that Aziraphale liberally applied himself to the open bar and would forget the whole thing. Worst case, well… Crowley couldn’t think of that right now. 

It’s not as if he was to _blame._ Aziraphale’s perfect pale hair and inviting eyes and rosy cheeks in the glow of the party were undeniably angelic. But it probably wasn’t best to have mentioned that the second time he met the guy. Great buggering fuck. 

Crowley made it through the speech, somehow. Afterwards, people said he had been funny and charming, and it was altogether a really lovely thing to have shared with everyone. He couldn’t remember any of it. His mouth had run on while his entire attention was focused on Aziraphale, pulled towards him like a magnet, as he made his way through the crowd to join his mother, his white hair aglow in the fairy lights all the while. 

~~~~~

Aziraphale continued to be suspicious of Crowley’s presence in the neighbourhood. It appeared that he kept odd hours, if reports from any of the staff were to go by. Rattling about in his garden early in the morning, lights on until late at night. Aziraphale had lost an unreasonable amount of time staring out of the hallway window by his bedroom just to watch the light shining through the trees. 

Father had caught him one evening, much to Aziraphale’s horror. He waved off his concern by explaining that he got distracted. The firm order to bed was enough to cure him of the habit. Never mind that he was thirty; what his father said was as good as law. 

Crowley, too, seemed to have all sorts of strange friends. Artist types and the like. Far too many informal parties were held that resulted in them wandering home—loudly, and sometimes wailing—down the street. All in all it was _not_ the proper conduct for someone of their standing, but it continued on regardless. 

Aziraphale had finished explaining this all over dinner one evening when:

“Why do you care so much about someone you don’t even talk to?” Warlock asked through a mouthful of peas. 

He didn’t quite know what to say to that. 

Mother politely looked at her own meal as father fixed him with a cold stare. 

“I, well, what I mean is, rather... It’s important to know what our neighbours are up to! The Livingstons lived there for fifteen years, and now there’s a newcomer that no one knows much about at all, and I am simply concerned. On behalf of the neighbourhood.” 

Father nodded once and returned his scotch. Aziraphale let out an internal sigh of relief. 

“Well _I_ think he’s _awesome._ ”

“How would you know what he’s like?” Aziraphale retorted hotly. In response, Warlock gave a delighted grin. 

“He showed me his greenhouse.” 

Aziraphale turned, mouth agape, to stare at their mother. “Mother, you _allowed_ this? Some strange man to be left alone with Warlock?” 

“Honestly, dear, he isn’t some “strange man”—he’s Crowley. I sent him a thank you note for the flowers and then the party, and we have friendly chats when we pass each other down the street. You look like I’ve grown a second head. I’m being _neighbourly,_ as you put it. Warlock was perfectly safe.” 

“Yeah, Azira,” Warlock agreed. “Anyway, he has so many types of plants and things. It was wicked.” 

“Was it now?” Aziraphale asked skeptically. 

“Yeah, he was busy, so we only got to see one, but he said I could come back later, and…” 

After dinner Aziraphale retreated to his room to think. The shock at Warlock spending time with Crowley had simmered down. He was young, and impressionable. It wasn’t his fault for being tempted by something new and exciting. His mother was always so… pleasant, with everyone. Of course it wouldn’t do to have bad blood between neighbours, even if it _was_ Crowley. She was just doing the right thing, he supposed. 

In a move he hadn’t properly done in some years, Aziraphale flopped back onto his bed like he was in the middle of teenage dramatics. He didn’t like Crowley. He… unnerved Aziraphale. He was unlike anyone he had ever known.

But did he actually know him? 

Aziraphale rubbed at his face with a sigh. They had spoken for, what, all of five minutes together? He knew some things from the media and from his digging around (gossiping), but what did that really matter? As much as he loathed to admit it, Aziraphale wasn’t being fair. Not to Warlock, not to his mother, and not to Crowley. 

What was he to do? A note of apology was out of the question: he hadn’t done anything outright wrong to Crowley, and it would probably concern him more than Aziraphale’s ongoing judgement. Suddenly becoming _overly_ friendly would also be too much. Creepy, almost, to someone he barely knew. 

Until Aziraphale could come up with a better strategy, he supposed it would be for the best if he just avoided Crowley, lest he make things somehow worse. 

~~~~~

If Crowley hadn’t been so busy planning his upcoming exhibition, he would have realised Aziraphale was avoiding him. True, they both had busy schedules, and though they were neighbours, the lawn between their homes was expansive, but Aziraphale avoided him all the same. As much as he could, anyhow. Crowley continued on in his own bubble and in all honesty thought they were getting closer. 

A few weeks after the party and the Incident, as he had taken to referring to it in his head, Crowley was walking along the edges of his property. It helped him think, sometimes, to be out in the open air and tread loop after loop. It seemed less strange than doing the same in the house, anyway. And Mary always got at him about the floors. 

The borders were long enough that it took him a decent while to complete a circuit. Raphael Art had invited him to “put on a show,” as they called it, and inspiration was, for once, nowhere to be found. 

Crowley was considering the merits of roses—too overdone and cliché at this point perhaps, but perhaps he could rework things somehow—when he spotted a blond-haired someone in the distance. He stopped in his tracks to watch as they got closer. 

It was Aziraphale, of course. There wasn’t anyone else it could be. He didn’t, however, appear to have seen Crowley. In all honesty, he seemed quite distracted as he paced up and down a small section of lawn with no consideration of the world around him. 

Crowley thought of calling out to him, but Aziraphale gave the air of someone who did _not_ agree with being yelled at, so he jogged over instead. 

“Aziraphale! Hello, how are you?” 

Aziraphale jumped at the greeting and turned to Crowley as he got closer. 

“Crowley! Goodness, you startled me,” he said in that posh, flustered voice of his. 

Crowley put his hands out in what he hoped was a soothing gesture and stepped closer. “Ah, sorry about that, then. Wasn’t being quiet or anything, so I thought you might have heard me come over.” That and the fact that he was dressed head to toe in black meant he stood out against the great outdoors. He quickly moved on. “Never mind. Everything alright?” 

“Yes, of course,” Aziraphale replied as his hands fluttered about his person. 

Crowley raised an eyebrow above his glasses at that obvious lie. He wasn’t going to buy _that_ for a second. Aziraphale was clearly worried about _something,_ if his darting gaze meant anything. 

After a moment Aziraphale sighed. “Well, perhaps not entirely. But it doesn’t concern you! That’s why I am out here, _alone_ … dealing with it.” 

Aziraphale’s pink lips pressed into a tight line as he turned to consider something in the distance. Crowley watched him all the while, hands shoved in his pockets. 

“Okay,” Crowley replied in a soft voice. He then cleared his throat. “ _Well,_ if you _did_ , perhaps, require some company for your… contemplation, I was doing much the same before I came over. ‘Cept I was walking around my grounds, which, admittedly, seems slightly more productive than wearing a line in the lawn. You’re welcome to join me. If you want to, that is.” 

Aziraphale glanced back and glanced away again. A tension in him seemed to ease, and he nodded. “Alright.” 

Crowley blinked in surprise, frozen in place, then remembered what he had offered. “Oh, right, yeah. This way, c’mon.” He gestured with a head tilt and turned to lead Aziraphale to his invisible path. 

Aziraphale fell into step beside him, hands clasped tightly behind his back. 

They didn’t talk. Crowley entertained the idea of the walk provoking Aziraphale to let it all spill out of him, whatever it was that he was so obviously concerned about. But they completed the round in total silence. 

Crowley led them down their shared border and turned when they reached the back of his garden to walk along the wall. He continued on a few steps then realised Aziraphale wasn’t with him. 

He looked back to see the man stood there, stock still, eyes wide. 

“What’re you…?” Crowley began before he realised. “Ah.” 

Aziraphale hadn’t seen the garden. Well, he had seen the front, and maybe he had wandered out on the night of the party, but Crowley had done a lot of work in that short space of time. 

The greenhouses were on the opposite side to which they had been walking, but in between were all sorts of garden beds filled with a variety of plants. A lot had been replanted from his old place and were already in bloom. 

When he moved in, Crowley didn’t think there would be any proper nature; everything around Heathcote seemed manicured within an inch of its life. But the bees had arrived soon enough. 

Not many people understood Crowley’s gardening techniques. The greenhouses were neatly catalogued and categorised, but the open garden, well. He tended to let things do what they wanted. They weren’t so much garden beds as garden areas, and only he really knew where the paths were. It would look… wild, to the untrained eye. That’s almost certainly what someone like Aziraphale would be thinking. 

“It’s, uh, a work in progress, you might say. I know it _looks_ a little—”

“It’s beautiful.” 

Crowley turned to look at Aziraphale properly. A dark blush was across his cheeks, and his teeth were dug into his lip, like he wanted to trap more words from escaping.

“I mean, in such a short time you have achieved so much,” Aziraphale corrected. “That’s all I meant.” 

“I know what you meant, Aziraphale,” Crowley replied without a second thought. At least, he thought he did. Crowley was getting a better picture of Aziraphale by the minute. It was clear there was a lot he thought he should do and say, even if his heart wasn’t in it. And there was far more that he shouldn’t but wanted to. A small, faint part of Crowley hoped that included being his friend. 

Aziraphale slowly stepped forward to meet Crowley where he had stopped walking. He tugged on his waistcoat—who wore a waistcoat on a Tuesday afternoon?—and looked at his companion. He raised his eyebrows and gestured for him to continue. 

Crowley took the awfully large and obvious hint and started again. They strolled together in silence, the gap between them growing wider at every corner. When they returned to the border between their properties, Aziraphale picked up considerable speed and strode off without so much as a goodbye. Bit rude, that was. 

Crowley certainly hated to see him go, but god did he love to watch him leave. 

He then caught himself staring at that plush arse retreating into this distance, framed perfectly by that bloody ridiculous waistcoat, his own mouth slightly open. 

Well, fuck.


	5. He'll Come Back To You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'd by the marvellous ZehWulf 
> 
> plot is actually happening y'all, how exciting!
> 
> for this fic Liz is a trans woman but her gender isn't particularly plot relevant. I first saw Liz as trans!Newt's name in _If Not Now, When_ by ineffablefool (one of my fave fics ever) but have seen it a few other places since, so I'm not sure who to credit
> 
> only warnings I can think of is that Gabriel sucks, and Aziraphale doesn't think he deserves better :(

The walk back home disappeared under a flurry of nervous thought. How could Crowley rile him up still, so much and so quickly? How could he just call him _angel_ and say he loved him like nothing had happened? 

The breakdown of their marriage, separation, and subsequent divorce had left Aziraphale broken. He had run away to France at the earliest opportunity—it felt like all of England reminded him of his ex-husband. He drowned his sorrows in food and wine and feeling sorry for himself, on cobblestoned streets and in crowds of strangers. 

Eventually—after it all, after returning home—he felt stronger. Certainly older. Aziraphale had concluded that he had been ridiculously foolish, to imagine that he could build a life with Crowley. It wasn’t what his future held. 

But all of his composure unravelled at the slightest provocation, the hint of that blasted smile. Aziraphale was really quite cross with himself, for being baited so easily. 

There was nothing to be done, however. Crowley seemed determined to stay, and Aziraphale could only hope he didn’t interfere too much in the upcoming days. 

He turned down the drive and stumbled in surprise at the sight of Gabriel’s car. In the shock of the afternoon, he had completely forgotten about him coming over. 

Aziraphale picked up the pace as his fiancé exited the vehicle. It was sleek and modern, relatively quiet on the roads, and fuel efficient. The paint was a dull grey—all of which Gabriel had described as “sensible” when he gave Aziraphale the tour. (Not that he knew much in particular about cars, but the features Gabriel had been so eager to list seemed to take rather a lot of fun out of it.)

He was quickly distracted again by the vision of Gabriel standing in the sunshine. Oh, he was so tall, and wore such nice clothes. Not to Aziraphale’s taste, of course—but didn’t they say opposites attract?

As Aziraphale was approaching from behind, Gabriel began the short walk over to the house. He supposed he could wait to surprise him, but Aziraphale had had such a tough morning already without being separated for any longer. 

“Gabriel!” Aziraphale called out as he picked up the pace to catch up. Only around his fiancé did his shorter legs seem like a curse. 

Gabriel turned around with a blazing smile. 

“Aziraphale,” he said calmly and stood, hands firm on his hips, as he waited for Aziraphale to meet him. 

It was a few moments before they were finally in front of one another.

Aziraphale leaned up for a kiss, which was granted, though briefly. Gabriel detested displays of affection in public. He said they were inappropriate and uncouth. Aziraphale was grateful for even the smallest kindness. Grateful for the entire relationship, really, after the mess of his first marriage.

He fell back to the ground from his tip toes. (Again, Gabriel refused to bend down to Aziraphale’s level in fear of wrinkling his clothing in the process, an excuse he had cited twice before Aziraphale conceded the argument.)

“Hi,” he said, pleasant enough in that crisp American accent of his. 

“Good afternoon.”

Still smiling, a barely-perceptible wrinkle appeared in Gabriel’s forehead. “Is it?”

Aziraphale huffed out a laugh. “Now that you’re here.” He reached out and grabbed his fiance’s arm to steer him towards the house. “So. How has your day been?”

“The investors are pretty enthusiastic about the upcoming acquisition, though their rep is an absolute nightmare. So concerned about the employees from the ‘family business’ we want to take over. It’s _business_ , not a sob fest. Honestly.”

Aziraphale made all of the appropriate sympathetic noises and waited a moment to be asked about his day. The moment passed. “Well, I had quite the shock today. You’ll never guess who’s returned to the neighbourhood.”

“Hm.”

“Well?” He prodded eagerly. 

“You said I wouldn’t guess, so why would I even try?”

Aziraphale did his best not to be disheartened. “Anthony’s back,” he declared conspiratorially. 

“He is?”

“Yes! I only found out because he sent mother _flowers._ And apparently Warlock knew all about it, too! My own family, can you believe?” Aziraphale confessed giddily, then sobered up. “Oh, you don’t mind him that much, do you?”

“Mind him?” Gabriel asked with a frown. 

“Well, you know. The fact of him. That we were partners, once. That we… belonged to each other,” Aziraphale settled on. Those words didn’t seem to begin to adequately describe it, but they were what he had in the moment. 

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “I don’t think anyone has ever owned _AJ Haven._ ” Business terms weren’t reserved for the boardroom, it seemed. 

“Gabriel.” Aziraphale stopped in the doorway. It was difficult, sometimes, to get him to understand things that had to do with anything other than cold logic and hard facts. 

“What?” He turned to look down. “Look, Aziraphale, babe. You were married to that jackass for what? Less than a year? I don’t see how he would’ve left some kind of mark on you.”

Aziraphale made a thoughtful noise at that. No visible mark had been left, to be sure. It felt like the scars on his heart would never heal. Like Crowley would always be a part of him, tied to him forever. 

“Besides, you’re mine now,” Gabriel assured, unaware of Aziraphale’s true feelings. “And that’s all that matters.” 

Aziraphale tried to offer a reassuring smile. “Of course. Body and soul,” he agreed. 

But as they walked into the house his mind wandered to thoughts not of sleek, brown hair, but of red curls. 

~~~~~

Anathema looked at her boss, unimpressed, as she sat perfectly straight across from him in the chair by the window. The details of her new assignment were less than ideal. She knew she should be grateful to have as much free range as she did already, but the _society_ pages? Who did he think she was?

“Look, Anathema. I know it’s not necessarily…. _spooky_ enough for you—”

“Occult,” she automatically corrected. 

Frank blinked. “Sorry, what?”

“The correct term is occult,” she emphasised. Honestly, it was a wonder she put up with him in the first place. 

He let out a frustrated sigh and moved on, beginning to roll up his sleeves as he spoke. 

“But this assignment is big, y’know? Okay, look, Aziraphale Lord isn’t exactly a starlet or anything—but big all the same. And Crowley, well. He _never_ talks to the press, so that could go either way,” Frank added in an aside. “And you do good work, no one is arguing with that. In fact, that’s why I’m _giving_ you this assignment. It could really help launch your career.”

Anathema raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “I don’t see how making a spectacle out of a person’s personal life is going to elevate my career.” 

That wasn’t quite true. She knew just how popular celebrity gossip was. It was hard to avoid the scandal last year between Aziraphale Lord and AJ “Crowley” Haven. Scandalous elopement between the two figures who seemed like chalk and cheese, a father’s abandonment, an even more scandalous divorce. Anathema simply believed herself above such idle things. 

Not to say it wasn’t wonderful, of course. True love and all that. Crowley was certainly making leaps and bounds in the art world, but nothing more than the long-dead rumour of him having some possible Satanic connections held her interest. Reporting on either as if they were news in the grand scheme of the cosmic forces of the universe was quite ridiculous. 

Frank leaned back further on the desk and raised his own eyebrow in response. “Sorry, did you forget where you work? The Celestial Observer isn’t, as much as you would want it to be, a great work of literature full of musings about the universe. Scandal sells. Celebrities sell. _Weddings_ sell.” He threw up his hands in frustration. “You’re my best photographer, this exclusive was personally requested by Crowley himself, and I’m not giving that up to anyone. That’s final.” Frank’s tone brokered no argument. 

Anathema adjusted her glasses as she thought it over. She supposed it would be a good chance to diversify her portfolio, if anything. Work was work. She _had_ taken the job to step out of her family’s shadow and prove to herself that she didn’t need to rely on their money or legacy. Acting like the rich heiress people thought she was by throwing a tantrum in the face of an easy job wouldn’t help.

She gave a tight smile. “And who am I paired with for this… privileged assignment?”

The office door banged open and a young, disheveled woman rushed in. “Sorry, sorry. Sorry I’m late and—” The files she had clutched in her arms fell to the floor. “For that,” she finished glumly. She frowned to herself and then dropped to the ground in order to pick them up. Anathema watched on, equally intrigued and horrified at the conduct. 

“Just in time in fact, Liz. Ms. Device, you’ll be working with Miss Pulsifer for assignment. I trust that’s satisfactory to you?”

Anathema refused to rise to the bait. She gave Liz a look up and down as she all but collapsed into the seat next to her. Long brown dress, worn sensible shoes, glasses, topped off with hair pulled back into what appeared to be a braid that had more of an effect like a very tangled ponytail. Anathema stopped focusing on the woman’s hair and realised she was being looked at herself. Liz’s eyes were wide behind her large glasses. Something stirred within her at the look. Had they met before?

After a moment Anathema turned back to Frank. He was giving her a concerned look. “Of course,” she replied and gave what she hoped to be a reassuring smile. 

“Excellent.” He clapped his hands. “The brief is here, as well as your details for accommodation. You’ll be publishing a five page spread about the wedding, including interviews with both Mr. Lord and Mr. Wright about themselves and their relationship. Crowley’s interview, well, we’ll see how Liz handles him, hm?” Liz gulped at the implication. 

“No killing each other, no insulting the client, phone if you desperately need anything but I really hope it won’t come to that,” he said with a pointed glance at both of them before he handed the folder to Anathema. “Alright, off you pop. And hey, it’ll be a good chance to get to know each other—right, Liz? Fresh blood and all that.” 

Liz looked quite nervous at the prospect but nodded all the same. 

~~~~~

Crowley set the phone down with a grin. His plans were coming to fruition. He despised the media, though he respected their deviousness. And when he’d run into his old acquaintance Frank last week, he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to gain some exposure and cause a little mischief on the side. It was about time in his career anyway to be more open, if he really was hoping to take his work to the next level. One couldn’t rotate around the high-art circles forever. 

“Do you really think that’s going to work?”

Crowley flew back into his chair with a start. “Wha— Jesus— _Mary_! Stop sneaking up on me!” he protested and clutched at his chest. Honestly, she was going to kill him one day. 

“You should stop being sneakuponable,” she said mildly as she leaned on the doorway. 

He attempted to get his breathing under control. “That’s not— I mean— fuck. You’ll give me a heart condition.”

Her eyebrows rose in surprise. “Are you really that old, sir?”

“Ha ha,” Crowley said with a roll of his eyes. “What was your point, before you nearly killed me?”

She stepped into the room. “It won’t work. Your… scheming. What do you hope to achieve from sending reporters over there? Hmm?”

He answered her with silence. 

Mary walked closer. “They’re reporters, not relationship therapists. They won’t expose Gabriel’s faults to Aziraphale, nor make him run back into your arms. In fact, it may hurt him even more. Do you think Aziraphale could handle that, that kind of… invasion of privacy?” she settled on with pursed lips and folded arms. 

Thoughts began to swirl in Crowley’s mind. His instinct was to dismiss Mary out of hand. She was constantly trying to rile him up, and he didn’t want to admit that he was wrong. Aziraphale was tough, though. To be raised by a man like that, to put up with the things he did. He was certainly stronger than Crowley. 

But what if he was wrong? What if he wasn’t as strong as Crowley thought he was? What if the reporters were cruel, baiting, or just plain prejudiced? He didn’t want Aziraphale hurt in his schemes. It led Crowley to think about what he _did_ want out of all of this, and that wasn’t something he could do under Mary’s watchful stare. 

He stood up from the chair by the phone and brushed past her to make his way to the study. He needed some privacy. 

As Crowley entered the room, he was greeted by the sight of Aziraphale’s wedding present. He sank into his ridiculously ornate chair with a groan. Somehow he had forgotten all about it. 

Crowley stared at the gift—its golden bands glinted in the light—and was taken back to the second night of their honeymoon. Crisp air filling his lungs. Cloaking darkness. The warmth of an angel pressed against him as they looked up and up and up. 

He shook his head as if to physically remove the thoughts from his head. 

That might as well have been a lifetime ago, they were so far apart now. 

But they had it once. 

The hope hadn’t been completely burned out of Crowley, yet. A small, terrible part of him still clung onto the fact that it was possible. They had been in love, and they could be again. Hopefully having the reporters would provide an outside perspective that would make Aziraphale see the truth. That they belonged together. 

Crowley wasn’t sure what he would do if they didn’t. 

~~~~~

Gabriel had soon disappeared into the guest wing to freshen up for dinner. Aziraphale returned to his own bathroom to splash his face with water in the hopes of calming down. It didn’t particularly work, and he once again sought out his fiancé for comfort. He found Gabriel pacing in front of the window, not a hair out of place, in the middle of a phone call. Aziraphale watched from the doorway for a few moments and then silently retreated. It wouldn’t do to interrupt important business with his neediness. 

He slowly walked back to his bedroom. It was the first time since he learned of Crowley’s return that he was alone and had the space to think about it. 

As Aziraphale made his way down the hallway, he got stuck in front of the window that faced Crowley’s house. How many nights had he spent in front of it, he wondered? Thinking about the strange man next door and then longing for him. Sighing wistfully over his schoolboy crush. Mourning the love they had once shared. 

And now it was all brought back with his return. A whirlwind of emotion, stirred up again by the slightest disturbance. 

Aziraphale shouldn’t even be thinking about Crowley. He knew that and chastised himself for it. He was set to be married to _Gabriel Wright_ of all people—so successful, so accomplished. Their wedding was just around the corner—oh, and Aziraphale still had so much to do. Confirming details with the suppliers and editing his vows and packing for their honeymoon and rehearsals and fittings and photographs. It was nothing like his previous elopement. 

And there Crowley was, sneaking into his thoughts again like a thief in an orchard. 

Aziraphale sighed to himself. He suddenly felt very old and very tired. Ridiculous, for being in his thirties, but true all the same. 

It was worth it, though. It was proper, and what Gabriel deserved. A proper start to a proper marriage and a life of wedded bliss. 

If only Aziraphale could convince himself that it were true. 


	6. You're My Downfall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More pining.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'd by ZehWulf, who is awesome
> 
> wahoo new chapter! atm I Cannot write anything only edit so who knows when the next one will be posted. anyone's guess! 
> 
> as always you are welcome to mark this fic for later and read it once complete if you would like the whole plot available to you at once. otherwise I will not be giving spoilers in the comments :)
> 
> cw: very minor injury in this one, a small mention of blood but everyone is perfectly fine

_Approximately three years ago..._

Crowley wasn’t _completely_ oblivious. He saw how Aziraphale reacted to him and knew what he probably thought: that Crowley wasn’t the right kind to be in Heathcote and certainly not the right kind to associate with Aziraphale. But they were neighbours, which meant he couldn’t avoid Crowley forever.

Case in point: one fine Tuesday when Crowley had been wandering past Aziraphale’s place on his way down their street when he spotted the man in question struggling with a large… chair, of some sort. It seemed he was trying to drag the eyesore up to the front door by himself, despite it barely fitting between his outstretched arms. Aziraphale stopped and started several times as Crowley approached, unsuccessfully jiggling it with a bent knee.

“Oi! Aziraphale!” Crowley announced and jogged over to help before the situation grew dire.

Aziraphale spotted him and dropped the chair to the ground. It hit the gravel with a loud crunch. His pale skin was flushed, and some of his usually perfect-set curls were stuck to his forehead with sweat.

He did not look at all pleased to see Crowley.

“Yes?” he asked in an uncharacteristic grumble.

“Well,” Crowley drawled as he came up to meet him, “good morning to you too. I was _going_ to ask if you needed some help with that.” Crowley pointedly looked at the piece of furniture resting between them. Up close it was ugly and ornamental, just the sort of thing rich people liked. Despite his sunglasses Crowley winced at the bright gold accents. It was a tub style, though much larger than he had ever seen, and upholstered in what could only be described in gaudy carpet-bag chic.

Aziraphale’s expression shifted from one of displeasure into a glowing smile. “Oh, would you?”

“Course. What, did you think I was coming over to watch you suffer or something? Make fun of you?” Crowley asked with a scrunched up nose. This guy really thought the worst of him.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “No, no of course not. Sorry. One doesn’t like to be caught in such an… embarrassing situation.”

“I mean, it is a pretty horrific chair, and far too large for one person to lift by themself. Anyone would struggle.”

“Right,” Aziraphale said as he began to study his nails.

“So. Where do you want it?”

Aziraphale looked up. “Oh! Oh, um, it’s going into the east parlor. I suppose I’ll lead, then…” he added, unsure.

Crowley got situated around the front of the chair. “After you.”

Together they lifted the monstrous piece of furniture up the stairs and into the house. The place seemed even bigger than Crowley remembered. He followed Aziraphale down one corridor, and then another, until they were finally in what was dubbed the “east parlor.”

They arrived at the appropriate spot, and Aziraphale indicated that they could put it down. Crowley dropped it—gently, of course—with a sigh, and collapsed into it.

“This isn’t comfortable at all,” he muttered as he tried to rearrange his limbs to avoid the lumps, with little success. “Did you pick this out yourself?”

Aziraphale didn’t seem to have any idea what to say at Crowley’s squirming. “Goodness, no. I would like to think I have a little more taste than that.”

Crowley’s head lolled back to look up at him. “So, why d’you have it, then?”

“It’s part of Mrs. Watson’s new collection. She’s a designer, of sorts. Well. She likes to imagine herself as a designer. It’s… a gift,” he clarified with a frown.

“A gift, sure,” Crowley said with a snort. “Bloody painful gift, if you ask me. God, what did she stuff this with? Some of the sticks she’s not storing up her arse?”

Aziraphale had wandered around to face Crowley properly and leaned on the edge of a table opposite the chair. Instead of meeting his gaze, he looked out the window to the garden. Crowley could still see that his lip twitched with amusement.

“I wouldn’t know,” Aziraphale said delicately.

“Of course not. I’m the idiot who sat in the thing. I could’ve sworn furniture was meant to be sit-on-able but I must’ve gotten _that_ wrong.”

“Sit-on-able?” he asked, now looking back at Crowley.

“Yeah. ‘S’perfectly good word. Accurate too. Useful. Unlike certain chairs.”

Aziraphale’s beautiful blue eyes twinkled as he gave a small smile. It looked like he did have a sense of humour, after all.

Crowley grinned back.

But then Aziraphale seemed to catch himself. Like he remembered who and where they were, and his face turned more serious. He stood up from the table he had been leaning on and tugged at his waistcoat, smoothing everything back into place.

“Ah. Thank you, Crowley, for assisting me. I’m sure I must have interrupted your plans for the day, and I won’t keep you any longer.”

“Right, yeah, nah. Lots of plans, me,” he said and returned to mostly vertical.

Aziraphale began to lead him out, retracing their steps down the corridors in silence.

They got back to the front door and Crowley hesitated, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

“It was very good of you, my dear. Thank you,” Aziraphale said, voice clear and warm.

That threw Crowley for a loop. His head spun at the endearment, and instead of anything reasonable, he responded with a muttering of, “’M not good, angel.”

They both blushed, Aziraphale’s face open with surprise. The only thing Crowley could do was stalk away, quite quickly, from the man he was rapidly falling in love with.

At least Aziraphale’s brother didn’t seem to have the same hangups when it came to Crowley. He didn’t seem to care at all about his sunglasses or car or occupation. Thought it was all pretty “cool,” actually. Warlock was a fun kid, always questioning things, not at all shy to share his opinion. He reminded Crowley a lot of himself, if he were honest.

Just the once Crowley had offered to show him the greenhouses, and it seemed the kid was now magnetically attached to his garden. So far he had respected Crowley’s rules (don’t coddle the plants, don’t disturb anything in the greenhouses, always wear gloves) with minimal grumbling. Warlock came around in the afternoons if he could get away from studying and at weekends if he didn’t have other plans. It was… nice. Crowley didn’t have any family (or friends, really) to speak of, and kids were always much more honest and much more entertaining.

And he was open about Aziraphale, too, which both helped and hindered the situation Crowley had found himself in. He hadn’t been able to come up with a reasonable excuse to go bother Aziraphale again, and honestly was a little afraid of what might happen if he did. That was two “angel” incidents now, and if he didn’t get a hold of himself there would soon be a third.

From his various discussions with Warlock, Crowley learned the following: Aziraphale was always reading (“Boring books, if you ask me. They don’t have pictures _or_ pirates.”). He didn’t actually like most of his supposed friends he was always hanging around with (“He’s never happy, after parties and things. Always gets headaches.”). He loved dessert, and he loved helping people, but rarely relaxed or took time for himself.

“He takes too much after Father. Wants to impress him, all the time. So he never has fun anymore. Azira used to be cool, always would tell me stories and play with me. Now he’s boring. And sad, I think. Father isn’t around much…” Warlock pulled back from the weeds he had been tugging at to turn to Crowley. “Can I look in the greenhouse again?”

Very informative indeed.

~~~~~

Aziraphale took the rare opportunity to walk to his neighbour’s and summon his brother home for lunch. It wasn’t exactly necessary, as Crowley sent Warlock back surprisingly on time whenever their activities were interrupted by a meal. But Aziraphale could not deny his curiosity ever since he had seen the garden, and he couldn’t use the excuse of being a precocious child to hang around.

As he strolled along the side of the house, towards the corner that would turn into the garden, there was a sudden crash and a pained shout. It was Warlock.

Aziraphale started to run towards the source of the noise. Near the back fence Crowley was knelt over Warlock, glasses pushed to the top of his head. He didn’t even see Aziraphale coming over; he was completely focused on the task at hand.

“It’s alright, I promise. Cry if you need to, though. Better to get it out,” he murmured as he examined Warlock’s bleeding hand. Crowley seemed remarkably calm, compared to Aziraphale, who felt like his heart had climbed all the way into his throat.

Wasn’t his sole job as an older brother to keep Warlock safe? How could he let Warlock get hurt? Though Warlock had pulled away as they had grown older, the constant fear for his welfare never subsided. It was only exacerbated as Father grew more busy with work, and Aziraphale was more often than not the man of the house. He had failed once again.

“Warlock,” Aziraphale cried and fell helplessly to his knees beside his brother, no consideration for the grass about to stain his trousers. Shards of a cracked pot were a short distance away on the ground. In Aziraphale’s mind, blood was everywhere.

Crowley jolted at the shock of Aziraphale’s sudden appearance but smoothly rose to dart back into the house.

Warlock sniffled and threw himself against Aziraphale as Crowley dashed away.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale said into Warlock’s hair and held him tight, rubbing his back like he had done so many times when Warlock was smaller.

Crowley came back in no time at all, first aid kit in tow, and joined them on the ground. He opened it without preamble and pulled out some wipes. He then gently grabbed Warlock’s bleeding hand.

“This’ll sting, kid,” he murmured as he began dabbing at it. Warlock whimpered and buried his face deeper into Aziraphale’s chest.

Once the cut was clean, Crowley reached for a roll of bandages. As he did so he caught Aziraphale’s eyes over Warlock’s head, but quickly returned to his task.

The bandage was trimmed, and Crowley knelt back, and again their gaze met. Aziraphale was startled. It was the first time he had seen Crowley’s eyes not covered by his glasses. His remarkably amber eyes were wide, beautiful, but strained, like he had been caught doing something terrible. He looked younger than Aziraphale had ever seen him.

They shared a breath, and Crowley unfroze, hastily shoving his glasses back down his face as he hunched inwards. Warlock had settled down and pulled away, not caring in the slightest about the soggy damage done to Aziraphale’s jacket. Aziraphale couldn’t really mind, either.

“Sorry, Crowley,” Warlock muttered and rubbed at his face with his good hand.

“Nah, s’alright, kid. Accidents happen. It’s why we wear our gloves though, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he replied glumly and didn’t look at either of them.

“Aziraphale isn’t mad either, is he?” Crowley added and looked at Aziraphale expectantly.

Aziraphale blushed and stammered. “No, no, of course not. Just awfully worried, Warlock. I don’t enjoy seeing you hurt.”

“See?”

Warlock nodded and blew out a breath.

“Best get home, kid. Healing needs rest and fuel, and if I’m not mistaken it’s lunch time.”

In the blink of an eye, Warlock had thrown himself against Crowley. Crowley seemed like he didn’t know what to do with the child he found in his arms. His hands flitted about before he settled on patting Warlock’s back awkwardly. It was over in a flash and the kid jumped up to stand.

The adults stood more slowly as Warlock wandered off to talk to the flowers at the other edge of the garden while he waited for Aziraphale. Crowley had been teaching him that they did better when you talk to them, but Warlock didn’t quite get the idea of constructive criticism versus general conversation.

Crowley and Aziraphale stood together in silence. Aziraphale did his best to ignore the state of his trousers and his pathetic behaviour. This was not at all what he had planned for the afternoon.

“Will he be alright?”

Crowley startled at the broken silence. He attempted to shove his hands in his pockets but then seemed to realise he still was clutching the roll of bandages. He ended up crossing his arms. “Course he will. Just a cut, and a shallow one at that. Might want to wash it out properly at home though. You know how kids are,” he said with a shrug. Haven’t had that much pain in the world yet, but it does mean everything’s more dramatic.”

Aziraphale processed that for a moment. Crowley was full of surprises. And insight, it seemed.

“Well, I... Thank you, for taking care of him. And for all the gardening you’ve been doing. He’s been enjoying it. Much more than spending time with me,” he said, more to himself than his companion.

“That’s not true,” Crowley insisted. “ He just doesn’t understand you, anymore. Thinks you have… better things to do, than to hang out with a kid. He...” He wrapped his arms tighter around himself and looked away. “He misses you, y’know.”

Aziraphale opened and closed his mouth at that revelation. He went to reply but was interrupted by Warlock reappearing at his side and declaring that he was hungry. He clung to Aziraphale’s side for the second time that day as he politely requested that they leave.

“Thank you, again. Really. I appreciate it,” Aziraphale told Crowley over the top of Warlock’s head.

Crowley nodded, and with one final look back, Aziraphale turned to catch up with Warlock. They walked home together, Warlock talking his ear off about all of the gardening they had been getting up to.

Mother was fussing with the dining table when they entered, and at the sight of her children—one tear-stained and bandaged, the other covered in grass—she gasped.

“Is everything alright?” she asked fretfully.

Warlock paid her no attention as he slumped into a chair and focused solely on the food before him.

Aziraphale rubbed her arm, then settled at the table. “Yes. There was a small accident, but Crowley took care of it,” Aziraphale said and tucked in. The emotional ordeal had left him quite famished.

“Oh, did he?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

Aziraphale could only nod in response as his mind continued to race with all that had happened.

After lunch, he barely remembered what he ate and excused himself as soon as he was able to go have a think by himself. He felt almost in a daze. There was so much to consider.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> update 11th july: this fic is NOT abandoned, it is in fact being actively worked on! the rest of the chapters involve a lot more plot than I'm used to, so I'm waiting to ensure that it is cohesive and telling the story i want to be telling, without having to go back and fix stuff a million times.


	7. Hold The Phone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO dear reader. this chapter includes my favourite scene from the movie (which you can watch here: https://youtu.be/MxozXTM0GCo) and therefore took the longest to write. i mean there were other factors but, yknow. 
> 
> beta'd by the radiant ZehWulf. any mistakes are definitely my own

Aziraphale reached a stopping place with his planning and set his diary aside. For a moment he rubbed at his temples—he truly was looking forward to when this wedding business was over. 

He sighed to himself. He could take a break for the moment, though he would have to return to narrowing the guest list soon enough. Aziraphale stood up and approached the bookshelf as he considered what he was in the mood for. Something distracting, definitely, but familiar, so he wouldn’t have to think too much. Perhaps he would spend the afternoon with Oscar? 

The door opened behind him and he turned. 

“Mother, what have I done to deserve your company?” 

He pushed the book’s spine back to sit flush with the others and crossed the room to greet her. 

Aziraphale kissed her cheek, and when he pulled back, he noticed an unusual look on her face. 

“Hmm? Oh, can’t a mother visit her son for no reason?” She asked, not quite meeting his eye. Aziraphale frowned at her. “You haven’t done anything, dear,” she said, and patted his shoulder. “Would you sit?”

Aziraphale returned to the indicated sofa with trepidation. He hadn’t often seen his mother this serious. He hoped everything was alright. 

“What is it?” 

“I always have loved the colour on you.”

Aziraphale glanced down at his usual tartan bow tie, the one he wore most days. He knew it wasn’t her favourite. “Mother.” 

She twisted her hands together, lips pressed tight, then sighed.

“I just received a phone call letting me know that there are journalists on their way—”

“Journalists,” he said flatly. 

“—to come and interview us about your upcoming nuptials.”

He blinked with surprise. “Journalists? Coming _here?”_

“Only two! A writer and a photographer. They’re from the Celestial Observer and they sound like quite nice young ladies,” she tried to assure him.

Aziraphale crossed his arms. That was not even in the realm of possibility of what he thought she would say. “I don’t think I’m obligated to let anyone in my home, let alone paparazzi.”

“Well…” Mother came and sat next to him on the sofa and placed a hand on his knee to try and placate him. 

But none of it made sense. “I certainly didn’t invite them here! Who did? Did _father_ send them?” 

“No, no. Aziraphale, dear, it’s quite a long story and they truly are about to arrive and, well. You are looking a bit of a state. Can you please question me afterwards?”

Only then did he realise he had been running an anxious hand through his hair. “Fine. But this is _not_ over!” 

Aziraphale pointed a finger at her then stormed out, unable to stand the sight of her any longer. He rushed in the direction of his bedroom—his well worn suit would not be suitable for facing the scrutiny of journalists. 

He couldn’t think clearly. He didn’t deal well with surprises to begin with but _reporters_ , coming to ask about their _wedding?_ Aziraphale couldn’t even begin to imagine who sent them over. Another left and _SMACK!_

He ran straight into Warlock. 

“Ugh, Azira!” he groaned as he stumbled back.

“Gosh, I’m sorry Warlock, I fear I’ve quite lost my head. Are you alright?” Aziraphale crouched down to inspect his brother. “Mother gave me some rather unfortunate news and—actually, you’re just the person I wanted to see.”

Warlock snorted. “Clearly.”

Aziraphale brushed some imaginary lint off of Warlock’s shoulder. “How would you like an opportunity for sanctioned mischief?” 

Warlock crossed his arms, a gesture that seemed eerily familiar. “It’s not as fun if you have permission, you know.”

If Aziraphale closed his eyes, that would have sounded just like Crowley. He froze at the similarity, which Warlock must have interpreted as him driving a hard bargain. 

“Fine. What is it?” 

~~~~~

Liz did her best not to fidget as she sat on the stiff, gaudy sofa in the spacious, gaudy parlour. A tea service had been placed on the table in front of them, though she worried too much about damaging the delicate cup to fix herself one. Anathema sipped at hers amicably next to her, apparently unconcerned with the whole venture. Opposite them was an ostentatious armchair, no doubt waiting for the arrival of Mr. Lord. Two others sat at either end of the table, all but pinning Liz in place. She wouldn’t be able to make a quick exit without knocking the no doubt expensive furniture over. 

She had sketched out a few ideas in her notebook—descriptions of the house, questions that she’d thought of as they made their way over—but mostly she studied it to avoid speaking. Liz was not looking forward to this. 

Some minutes after Clarence had led them to the room, the door opened again. Finally. The sooner this got started, the sooner it would be over. 

It wasn’t Aziraphale Lord who entered the room, however. It was a young boy, presumably his younger brother Warlock. Liz hardly had time to take in his uncombed brown hair, so different from his brother’s, before he ducked around the table and started to speak. 

“‘ello, ladies. What’s all this then?”

Liz looked at Anathema in confusion. That was not the accent she’d expected to come out of his mouth. 

“We’re the journalists sent over from the Celestial Observer,” Anathema offered. 

“Indeed you are. I am, of course, Warlock Bartholemew Ignatious Lord, at your service.”

He reached for Anathema’s hand and shook it enthusiastically. She seemed to be pretending that this was all perfectly normal. 

“Anathema Device.”

“What an unusual name! An unusual name for an unusual lady, perhaps, if your skirts are anything to go by,” he added in a loud whisper. “A yank as well, or I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.” 

Anathema simply inclined her head in response and looked at him. Warlock quickly moved on and gestured to her camera. 

“And you snap the pictures, then.”

“Yes, I’m a photographer.”

“Blimey! Reducing all that life into a flat piece of card. Takes real talent, I’m sure.” 

Liz watched on in horror at the storm brewing on Anathema’s face. 

“And you’re the writer.”

She startled as Warlock suddenly addressed her from behind the sofa. “Yes?”

She had to turn uncomfortably to face him, which encroached on Anathema’s space, while Warlock rested his head on his folded arms on the sofa’s back. 

“Words, words, words, and the like, then?” He cocked an eyebrow at her before he pushed off. 

Warlock paced back around to inspect her, now holding his own notepad in his hand. Where had he pulled it from? “Come all the way here to write about my big brother.” Warlock whistled a low, impressed note. 

Liz looked at her colleague helplessly. What _had_ they gotten themselves into?

He scribbled something down. What, Liz couldn’t even imagine. 

“How long have you been a quill-driver then?” 

“Um—” She shifted in her seat. “—about eight years now? Before that I—”

“Was in a cult?” 

“ _What_?”

He leaned out of her space. “Just checking.” He wrote something else down. Before this, Liz thought she was good with kids. “Have _you_ ever been married?”

“Um, no, of course not. What a, a silly question!” Liz glanced between Anathema and Warlock and shrunk at the look on their faces. This wasn’t going well, was it? 

“Hmm,” was all he said. 

In the meantime, Warlock had flopped into the chair to Liz’s right in an overt display of relaxation. Anathema narrowed her eyes behind her glasses and fiddled with her camera’s settings. Liz watched the standoff with fascination. 

“May I take your picture, Warlock?” 

“Sure thing, miss. Want me to pose?” He sat up and puffed his chest out like a strongman. 

Anathema raised the camera up towards her face. “It’s best to… act natural,” she murmured and snapped a photo. 

Warlock blinked at the flash. Anathema turned the film advance lever. 

“You have a very interesting aura, Warlock, did you know?” Another loud snap. 

He faltered from the position, slightly dazed. “What—what’s an aura?” The put-upon accent had completely disappeared. Liz was slightly glad to see she wasn’t the only one who Anathema had such a strong effect on. 

The camera was placed carefully back in its case. 

“It’s a coloured force, a spectre of energy, representative of your wellness and areas of malady.” Anathema crossed one leg over the other and smoothed down her colourful skirt. 

“I can’t see any… force.” Warlock frowned. 

“Only certain people have the gift. I am descended from a long line of seers. It takes years to hone one’s skills, of course. Take Liz’s, for instance.” 

“Me?” 

Anathema smiled at her reassuringly. “Yes, you. There’s indigo, around your head. That indicates wisdom and deep knowledge of oneself; intuition.” Well, that didn’t sound _too_ bad. 

“Blue and orange are tangled around your core. You’re creative and courageous, often, but struggle with confidence, and can get down on yourself.” How did she know that? They barely knew each other. 

“And of course, your heart chakra.” 

“My what?” 

Anathema leaned forward and pressed a hand just below Liz’s left collarbone. Liz looked at it, and tried not to think about how few layers were between Anathema’s palm and her skin. 

“You have a lot of red, here. Some pink, too. They tend to indicate passion, femininity… love.” Liz looked up in horror. Anathema, in turn, quirked a dark eyebrow above her glasses. God, she hoped she couldn’t feel her heart racing through her cardigan. 

“And you, Warlock,” Anathema suddenly turned away, her hand retreating. Phew.

“Grey and green. They can mean many things, though I sense for you they show jealousy. Or is it guilt, perhaps? Most young men your age would be filled with blue, but you have very little.” Anathema pushed her glasses more firmly up her nose. 

“An absence of masculinity in your life, then. There’s an undeniable gloominess, certainly, lingering beneath it all. Your heart is yellow, so all hope isn’t yet lost, however. Interesting, isn’t it?” 

Warlock‘s frown deepened, then he spun on his heel and exited the room. Liz didn’t have time to analyse any of the conversation as the door soon opened again and a blond man entered. 

~~~~~

Aziraphale closed the door to the parlour behind him, and with one final steel of resolve, turned and stepped into the part he was about to play. 

“Ah, you must be the investigators,” he said as he approached the sofa where the two women hastily stood up.

“Reporters,” said the nervous-looking one on the left. Her companion gave her a sharp, sideways look.

“Journalists,” she corrected. 

A thin smile came across his face, and he dipped his head in agreement. “Yes. Please, sit, sit. No doubt you are both weary from pounding the pavement in search of that next story!” 

Aziraphale made himself comfortable on the chair in front of them, as the journalists looked between each other. So far it was all going as well as could be expected. 

As they held their silent conversation he doctored his cup of tea from the tray between them. 

The bolder one cleared her throat and spoke again. “Sure. Look, Mr. Lord—” 

“Aziraphale, please, since we are all going to become _incredibly_ familiar with each other.” Aziraphale emphasised the word incredibly and took a sip. 

She had the decency to appear mildly chastised. “Aziraphale. I’m not sure what you’ve been told so far, but I assure you we’re not here to air your dirty laundry for the whole world to see.” 

“I certainly should hope not!” He exclaimed, scandalised. Playing the dramatic celebrity was easier than he would have thought. 

She continued on. “Liz and I have been tasked with conveying the details of your engagement and wedding to the readers of the Celestial Observer _._ Now, perhaps it was a bit of a shock to you for us to arrive, and perhaps you have preconceived notions about our employer, but—” 

Aziraphale returned the cup to its saucer. “Let me cut you off there. Out of the three of us in this room, I think you two would be the ones with preconceived notions. Perhaps a whole file of them, all about me, and my failed marriage, and my current fiance, yes? I hardly know your names, let alone where _you’re_ from and what sorts of people you are. You’re Liz, I take it?” 

She sat up a little straighter. “Yes. Um. Liz. Liz Pulsifer.” 

“Miss Pulsifer, how do you do? And despite your colleague’s diatribe, you’re the writer of the two, I take it, from the way you clutch your pen?”

She nodded, eyes wide with nervousness. He offered her a strained smile.

“And what might our dear photographer’s name be?” 

“Anathema Device. Ms Anathema Device.” She didn’t seem to back down. Now _that_ was interesting. 

“Of course. A pleasure, I’m sure.” 

“Sure.” 

“The printed press has not been kind to me in the latest chapter of my life, no doubt you’re aware. I wasn’t responsible for contracting you for this report—in fact I was only told a mere half an hour ago—and I will not hide the fact that I am not, how you would say, ecstatic about your presence in my life and in my home.” 

Anathema opened her mouth as if to speak again, but one look from him kept her quiet. 

“We are a fortnight out from our wedding, and I have just been told that all of my movements will be tracked by two strangers who work in a profession that appears to want to drag me through the mud.” Aziraphale stopped himself from getting too worked up. He had to maintain his cool. “But I will not be rude to you for the sake of rudeness. I will… cooperate, as best I can, yes?” 

Liz gave another shaky nod, and Anathema hummed in agreement. 

“At least that’s settled. Perhaps by the end of this we will be slightly more than strangers, yes? Tell me, Ms Device, how long have you been in England now?” 

“Quite a few years. My family is originally from here, though my grandmother moved across the pond, as it were, for her career. Hence the accent.” She didn’t miss a beat, that one. 

“And what a delightful novelty it is. Does it compare, at all? The miserable weather, the job prospects?” 

“Anathema’s our best photographer,” Liz burst out. “She’s great at her job.” 

Wasn’t _that_ curious? “I see. How wonderful. Is this little digression supported by your family? If I remember correctly, your relatives are quite well known on the stock market.” 

Anathema tilted her head, seemingly examining him. “I like to think I make my own future.” 

“I’m sure you do, my dear, I’m sure you do. And what about yourself, Miss Pulsifer?” 

“Hmm? Oh, Liz is fine, please.” 

“Liz, then. How do you like reporting?” 

“I like it well enough, I guess. Bit frustrating sometimes, not picking assignments, but um. I like the writing. And it pays the bills.” She offered a nervous chuckle. 

“Indeed. Well, I assume you’re aware that wedding planning is an awfully busy time, and I won’t be at your beck and call.” 

“Of course,” Anathema agreed. 

Aziraphale withdrew his planner from a jacket pocket with flair. 

“Truly you’ve come at the _most_ inconvenient time, though of course that is out of your control. I’ll have to review to see where I can squeeze you in.” He made a show of flipping the pages and drawing a finger slowly down the dates inscribed. 

They were interrupted by the door opening and the tell-tale strides of Gabriel entering the room. Aziraphale tried not to deflate completely, though his smile turned more plastered. 

“Well, isn’t this a cozy picture!” 

Anathema’s gaze turned piercing, and Liz seemed to retreat back into her shell. Aziraphale took one last moment of peace as Gabriel approached them. 

“Hello, dear,” he said, looking up at his fiancé. 

“Hi, babe,” he said without looking at Aziraphale. “You must be the photographer, right? Ana-something?”

“Anathema. Anathema Device.” 

“Ana, great. Another American. I’ll finally have someone around who understands coffee—ha! And you’re...” Gabriel squinted at her. 

“Liz.” 

In lieu of shaking hands, he waved at them. Aziraphale only hoped this wouldn’t end too badly. 

“Nice. Hope you haven’t been grilling this one here too much, god knows he can’t take it.” He perched on the arm of Aziraphale’s chair and elbowed him in what he hoped was jest. 

Did Aziraphale just hear what he thought he heard? That Gabriel _knew_ the journalists were coming? They had to present a united front, but by god was his fiance going to hear about this later. 

“We’re only getting to know each other, Mr. Wright. No interrogation just yet.” 

“Great.” Gabriel withdrew a shiny apple out of his pocket and took an obnoxious bite. 

He swallowed loudly. “I can’t stay for long, unfortunately. We’re in the middle of this huge acquisition at the company. You know who I work for, right? Lord & Smith. You could say I’m kind of a big deal.” He winked at the journalists, and Aziraphale longed for the ground to swallow him up. 

“Anyway, I—are you writing this down? You’re going to want to get this.” 

Aziraphale watched in disbelief as Liz started to reluctantly take notes. 

Gabriel took another large bite. “The negotiation’s been going on for months now. And you must be thinking, ‘well, how does he manage all that business and wedding stuff at the same time?’ Well, luckily I have this guy right here, hmm? Aziraphale’s been a real asset in that regard. It’s also nice for him, as he didn’t get to plan any of it with his disaster of a first marriage.” 

Aziraphale tried to keep the smile on his face from turning into a grimace. Anathem and Liz glanced at one another, which Gabriel somehow picked up on. 

“Hey, no, guys, it’s fine, right, babe? I’m over it, really I am. And besides, that guy was a real piece of work, I don’t have to say that again.” Another laugh at his own joke.

“He’s back in the neighbourhood, isn’t he? Mr. Haven? We’re scheduled to go see him after… this.” Liz’s confidence petered out as everyone looked at her with a mix of shock and horror. 

Aziraphale opened his mouth to speak at the same time Anathema did. 

“You probably want to know my good side, don’t you? For your little photographs or whatever? I’ll let you in on a secret—I don’t have a bad side! Ha!” 

Gabriel looked at him for a moment, then Aziraphale realised it was meant to be a joke. He offered a weak chuckle. A large hand came down and forcefully patted him on the shoulder. 

He checked his watch and winced. “Unfortunately, I am going to have to cut this short as I have a call in fifteen that I cannot be late to. This was great. Just let Aziraphale know when you need me, and he’ll set up something with my assistant, all right?” And with that, Gabriel blew him a kiss and strode out of the room. Aziraphale all but sank into his chair. 

“I think we got all we needed for today, right, Liz?” 

Liz stared at Anathema for a moment, then realised what she meant. “Yep, mm-hmm, definitely.” Aziraphale understood what they were saying, but he was too overwhelmed to care. 

“Great. We’ll get ourselves sorted and call the house when we know our schedule better, all right, Aziraphale?”

It was only the middle of the afternoon, but he suddenly felt exhausted. He cleared his throat.

“That will be perfectly satisfactory. I won’t detain you any longer. Especially if you have… other engagements, yes?” Like seeing my ex-husband, he privately thought. 

They walked in silence to the door. 

“Thank you for having us, Aziraphale,” Anathema said. 

“It was, um, lovely to meet you,” stammered Liz.

He inclined his head. “Indeed. Goodbye,” he murmured, as they made their way down the stairs and back to their car. 


	8. Making Love Is Quite An Art

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's a pun. the title is a pun
> 
> if you've forgotten the events of ch6 i would recommend a reread, but do what you want
> 
> check out the [pinterest board](https://www.pinterest.com.au/tashflora/its-in-the-stars/crowleys-art/) if you need a visual reference for crowley's art in the last third of this chapter 
> 
> beta'd by the incredible ZehWulf

_Approximately two and a half years ago…_

Aziraphale softened towards Crowley after Warlock’s injury. Some of his walls, his fears, dissolved in the wake of seeing the man, still practically a stranger, so careful and concerned with his brother. Aziraphale wouldn’t admit it—aloud or to himself—but he had been a bit of a fool. He had judged far too harshly before he actually knew Crowley at all. 

All he could do was be better than he had. He no longer let himself make up some pitiful excuse to run away when he bumped into his neighbour. He spent more time with Warlock, too, at Crowley’s prompting. More times than not they would walk to and from the garden together. Crowley’s face was always one of delightful surprise, even after the sixth time, and he always managed to talk to Aziraphale about something before he departed. 

Sometimes Aziraphale still caught himself. His upbringing (the influence of his father and “friends”) stopped him from smiling too widely, laughing too loudly. He knew how much they would disapprove of Crowley, and although he was a grown man, that pressure sometimes became too great. 

But most of the time, Aziraphale managed. To be friendly and happy and _himself_. In the surprise of the century, he felt more like himself around Crowley than any other. His cheeks hurt from smiling sometimes, his belly ached from laughter. He couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. The last time he had… a friend. 

~~~~~

Crowley had never known anyone like Aziraphale. Prim and proper and perfect. A right bastard, too, in the best sense of the word.

When he let himself let go, his humour was unparalleled. He could be so _bitchy_ about his acquaintances and people he had to put up with. It was amazing. And he had such a beautiful laugh. Crowley tried to hear it as much as possible. 

It seemed after the whole thing with Warlock, Aziraphale began to trust him. He talked more, at least. At first Aziraphale tended to cut himself off. Like he was embarrassed, like he had been talking “too much,” though Crowley never indicated so. 

Crowley turned gentle at that, coaxing him to continue his sentence and pick up where he left off. It was only a short while before he had been trained out of the habit. Crowley could listen to Aziraphale talk forever, he felt. About anything at all. 

As much as Crowley wanted to rush in firing on all cylinders, he didn’t want to scare Aziraphale off. So he made pleasant conversation when he came to drop off or pick up Warlock. Gave him flowers “just because” (“They’re offcuts, an—Aziraphale. They’d go to waste, otherwise”). Invited him to the theatre because artist types like him _always_ got tickets.

He inadvertently built a pattern. Weekly lunches or dinners or both; theatre or film or music on Saturday nights at least once a month. Crowley looked forward to every single meeting and always thought it would be the last. 

Then, one of his old friends opened a new restaurant, and Crowley knew it would be right up Aziraphale’s alley. So he sped over in his beautiful Bentley to pick him up. 

He managed to catch him reading outside. 

“Get in, angel!” Crowley yelled as the car skidded to a halt. The tire spit up gravel, and Aziraphale jumped back with a start, clutching a book to his chest. 

For a moment he was frozen in shock, then grew quite cross. “Crowley!” he chastised. 

In response Crowley simply rested his arms on the open window with an innocent expression on his face. 

Aziraphale threw his hands up in a huff and got in the car. 

Crowley grinned and retreated from his vantage point. As soon as the click of Aziraphale’s belt had sounded, he pulled off again at speed. He waited. 

It was one of his favourite things, to wind Aziraphale up like this. He was far more curious than he would like for people to believe and it was only a matter of time for him to start pestering Crowley as to where they were going or what they were doing. Crowley just had to keep quiet until then. 

The inevitable questions never came, though. He slowed down (barely) to a stoplight when Aziraphale spoke up. 

“Why do you call me that?” he asked with a frown.

In his peripheral vision, Crowley could see that Aziraphale had turned to face him. He in turn continued to face the road and slammed the gas as the light turned green. 

Maybe he could play dumb. “Call you what?” 

“Angel. That’s at least the second time you’ve called me that, and I wish to know why.” 

Damn. “S’not. I mean. I call you Aziraphale, don’t I? That’s your name. You have your hearing checked recently?” 

Maybe not that dumb. 

“My _hearing_ —? Crowley, be serious. It’s a simple question.” 

“Uhhhhh,” Crowley tried to think of anything to stall the inevitable disaster that loomed in the distance and was rapidly growing closer by the second. Every vaguely rational thought or eloquent phrase left his head almost immediately. 

He was silent for a moment as he searched for something at all appropriate to say. 

“You know,” he said with a wave of his left hand. “Your whole face and the”—more waving, around the top of his head—“hair. S’like a halo, ain’t it? And your eyes sparkle when you’re happy, and if anyone’s cheeks were cherubic, well.” 

Foot, meet mouth. 

Aziraphale slumped back into his seat, somewhat stunned. Crowley glanced over at him and kept on driving. Maybe it was fine?

“Are you poking fun at me?” Aziraphale asked in a soft voice. 

“What?” 

“You heard me,” he said, equally soft. 

“An— _Aziraphale._ No, of course not. Not for this, anyway. S’just. True,” he finished helplessly. There wasn’t anything else to say. 

Crowley slowed to a stop outside the restaurant and rested his hand on the gearshift for a moment as he processed how much he had royally fucked this whole thing up. He stared out the windscreen and willed the tears in his eyes not to roll over. He was tense, knuckles white against the leather. It felt like the world was holding its breath. 

A warm weight on his hand. Soft and tender. Crowley turned in surprise at the touch but Aziraphale was still looking resolutely out the window. One pat, two, and the hand was withdrawn, tucked back by Aziraphale’s side as he stepped out of the car. 

Crowley watched as he left and the door closed. He shook himself and got out as well. 

~~~~~

They didn’t speak of it through lunch or afterwards. But again, just like after Warlock’s injury, Aziraphale seemed to shine a little brighter, be a little warmer towards Crowley. 

It was completely embarrassing and totally uncool of him, but most of Crowley’s waking (and sleeping, come to think of it) thoughts were occupied by Aziraphale. It was like he was stuck, orbiting around the sun that was Aziraphale, the new centre of his universe. 

Crowley hadn’t been in love before. He had been enamoured with people and definitely in lust, but love? For someone like him? It hadn’t been on the cards. 

But Aziraphale had come along and stuffed everything up. Crowley _liked_ him, despite his “good breeding.” Found himself charmed by his fussiness. And it was a quick descent downward from there. 

Would Aziraphale ever be interested in someone like him? In him specifically? Obviously Crowley didn’t actually know if he was interested in men but, well. There were signs, but that didn’t mean anything. Just suspicions. 

What was Crowley even saying? Could he, AJ Crowley Haven, actually do the whole thing? Love and a relationship? Commitment? He never had anyone in his life that he had to rely on and no one to tie him down. But Aziraphale seemed fixed, here, in Heathcote. In his life with his books and his charity work and his family. Crowley was flighty and with his career picking up, he couldn’t promise the stability Aziraphale seemed to need. 

Could he? 

It was a ridiculous line of thought, anyway. Crowley couldn’t ruin the first true friendship he had ever had with his _feelings._ He couldn’t put that burden on Aziraphale. 

He would just have to bury them. The feelings, the thoughts, the… desires. Lock them deep within himself to keep his head and keep his friend. 

What could possibly go wrong?

~~~~~

It was hard not to think of Crowley after his confession. Aziraphale had thought of him often before then but that was simply being neighbourly. Now his interests went far beyond that of platonic companionship.

It was almost as if something inside of him had been unlocked and all of these emotions kept spilling out. Aziraphale never entertained the notion of someone like Crowley being interested in _him._ Crowley was undeniably attractive—that flame of hair and the inspiring way he walked. He was hip, too. He wore dark glasses and drove a shiny black car and was an artist, for god’s sake. Though they were practically the same age Aziraphale felt old and dowdy in comparison.

But Crowley didn’t seem to think of him that way. That was the issue. That there was this potential between them, a live spark of something else tempting him from just around the corner. Crowley had called him an angel and had meant it. It left Aziraphale puzzled as to what his intentions were, what they could be. It kept him up at night. 

Father was on another business trip. Aziraphale was not even sure how long this one was, he had been so distracted. It seemed like forever. However, it did mean he could spend more time gazing out of the upstairs window across to Crowley’s house as he thought. It didn’t help that much but night after night Aziraphale was drawn there, to look at and watch the light across the way. He thought of what Crowley was doing all alone in that big house of his. On his more pitiful nights, Aziraphale entertained the idea of Crowley not being alone. Maybe he had a partner he had failed to mention. In a way it was like a punishment, to think of all the reasons why Crowley would never be his. 

Worse still when his mind wandered off into decidedly adult territories. Although Aziraphale had never had a long-term partner, he was still a man, and he still craved like any other. Those thoughts were relegated to his bedroom, though, not the moonlit hallway he had become at home in. His actions left him satisfied and sticky and guilty, in turn. In the light of day, Aziraphale thought himself pathetic. Unable to control himself and unable to confront Crowley at the risk of rejection. 

There were feelings and attraction there. Aziraphale thought of Crowley far more than was good for him. He found himself growing more indulgent and carefree by the day. His friends and his father certainly did not approve. But anything other than that, large words of four letters and all that followed from them could not be considered a possibility. He just couldn’t. 

~~~~~

Crowley had invited him to his latest exhibition. Despite being friends for almost a year, Aziraphale still hadn’t seen any of his art outside of the housewarming party and the flowers he was often gifted. He was more than excited but tried not to show it too much, lest he embarrass them both. They were set to go the following afternoon. Crowley would show him around, and then they would have dinner afterwards. Aziraphale could hardly wait. 

His bedroom phone rang. Very few people ever called there, and Aziraphale reached for it with a frown. 

“Hello?” 

“Hey, Aziraphale. Hope you’re doing well. Look, unfortunately I can’t do tomorrow. This gallery owner wants to meet me as soon as possible, and it’ll be good but it’s all the bloody way in Scotland. So I won’t be able to come to the gallery with you.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale felt rather like a deflated balloon at the news. 

Crowley sighed. “Yeah. I’m really sorry about it. But look, your name’s on the list if you still want to, or we can go once I’m back in town, all right? I’m packing as we speak—Harriet Dowling, can you imagine? So I gotta run. But I’ll talk to you when I’m back in town.” 

Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut. “All right. Safe travels, my dear.” 

“Ngk yeah, thanks. Bye.” 

A click, and Crowley was gone. 

Aziraphale placed the phone back in the receiver and sunk into the bed. He felt disappointed that he wouldn’t be spending time with Crowley tomorrow. Wouldn’t be seeing him for some days. 

He sighed and looked about the room. He wasn’t at all in the mood for reading now. His room was a little untidy. Perhaps he would clean up then ask Clarence for a spot of afternoon tea. 

~~~~~

Morning came, and Aziraphale slept in for once. Since he had no obligations as he had blocked out the afternoon for their outing, he didn’t need to be up as early as usual. He ate a late lunch by himself. Mother was out, Warlock was at school, and he was alone. 

It had just turned one o’clock when he decided he would go. Crowley had said he could, and his curiosity was undeniable. It would be good, Aziraphale reasoned, to learn more about his friend. 

Clarence saw him readying to leave and asked if he would require a driver. It was well known Aziraphale didn’t particularly enjoy driving, especially in London, but he was in the mood for it today. Or at least, he wanted to revel in his solitude. 

“No, thank you, Clarence. I shall take myself. One doesn’t want to fall out of practise,” he added with a wry smile. 

His car wasn’t particularly flashy, but it was in a lovely pale blue. Mother liked to say it matched his eyes. He liked the colour well enough, and importantly the seats were comfortable. 

Aziraphale turned the key and set off down their long driveway towards the gallery. 

~~~~~

He hadn’t attended the Palais gallery in quite some time, but the directions he had been given were clear enough. As Aziraphale pulled up, a spot opened right in front of the entrance. Perhaps it was fortuitous. 

It was a beautiful sandstone building. Smaller than the main galleries in town, which meant it was populated by more experimental types. There was a large sign by the front door telling passersby what was on at the moment. It appeared a few smaller exhibitions were there along with Crowley’s. He took the top billing. 

_**Origins** _

by Crowley Haven

Unusual, but definitely intriguing. 

Aziraphale made his way up the steps and into the foyer. He did his best to quash the feeling of being out of place. 

Behind the front desk sat a woman, dressed smartly in all black. She smiled pleasantly at him as he approached. 

“Hello. I’m here to see the Origins exhibit. I do believe I’m on some sort of list? My name is Aziraphale Lord.” 

“Of course, let me check that for you.” She brought up a clipboard from one of her shelves and flicked through. 

“Right you are, Mr. Lord. You’re free to explore the exhibit as you like as long as you follow the signs. It’s just down the hallway, there. And please let me know if I can help you at all.” 

“Thank you.” 

He followed her indication down the hall towards the room. Another sign was at its entrance, similar to the one out the front. Up close he could now see the small flowers in the typeface, and the serpent coiled around the O.

Crowley hadn’t given much detail about the exhibit. He said he preferred to “let the art speak for itself,” mostly so _he_ didn’t have to explain it. The title was evocative, though Aziraphale had little idea about what the theme could be. Crowley was always full of surprises, wasn’t he?

Oh, Aziraphale did wish he were here now. Everything seemed much more manageable with him around.

He wasn’t, though, and Aziraphale had to go on. 

After the moment of studying the sign, he entered what was the first room. He felt his breath leave his chest as he came into the centre. The walls were a stark white, which made Crowley’s pieces all the more vivid. Aziraphale shut his mouth with a soft click and walked over to the wall left of him before he drew more attention to himself. Maybe it was better that Crowley wasn’t here. He certainly would tease Aziraphale for his reaction. 

A hulking tree of twisting branches and bulging roots, constructed of what looked like moss and leaves and wood, took up the majority of one wall. _Roots,_ it was called _._ He had never seen anything like it. 

A man of Aziraphale’s place in society was often surrounded by beautiful things. Cars and paintings and music and jewelry and fashions. They were all so traditional, even when considered part of a trend or latest craze. This art, though—and that’s what it undeniably was—was singular. He stared at it for a long time. 

There was so much to see, and eventually Aziraphale was able to drag himself away from the tree, which he had to stop himself from touching. He decided to move clockwise around the room. That seemed to be where it was leading him, anyway. 

The next was somehow even more beautiful. A triptych of larger-than-life flowers, encased in glass. As he got closer he realised they were made out of many smaller blossoms and individual petals. Aziraphale truly hadn’t known that _this_ is what Crowley did. He thought back in horror to their first meeting and his initial judgements. “Glorified flower arranging” indeed. He had been absolutely horrid. And Crowley had just let him. Let him be judgy and if he were honest, bitchy. Never mind that now. After the incident with Warlock, Aziraphale couldn’t be that version of himself. But all of this had come from Crowley’s mind. His heart, too. 

It seemed they both had issues with appearances. Aziraphale felt so much pressure, always, to be perfect and proper; to represent his family name with grace and poise. It left little room to breathe or to put a step wrong, let alone be himself. On the surface, Crowley came across as cooler than cool. Those glasses and the hair and the car and the clothes. He walked like he had never been less than totally confident any day in his life and talked with an ease that Aziraphale envied. 

But over the past year Aziraphale had learned that it was just that. An appearance. Crowley cared. So much it seemed to nearly break his heart. He was gentle with his plants and with Warlock. And with Aziraphale, too. He only ever teased as much Aziraphale was comfortable with. Always seemed to be watching behind his sunglasses to see if he had gone too far. His self-assurance was almost totally an act, one that came from having no one else to rely on to get through life. 

And his heart. He kept it hidden, underneath layers of fabric and swagger. But it was there. And—what was the word?—it was _tender._ Like the softest of rose petals; new grass in the spring. Crowley would deny it, of course. He couldn’t let something like that get out. But knowing him and seeing his art, seeing him for who he truly was, Aziraphale knew the truth. What an honour it was. A privilege. One that he couldn’t take lightly.

Aziraphale continued his walk around. There were half a dozen pieces in the room, but he took his time in studying them carefully. Some were displayed away from the wall and he found himself circling them, just like he had seen Crowley do on occasion. He must’ve done in the creation of the art, too, and it filled Aziraphale with a soft warmth, picturing him in his workspace, stalking around flowers like he was a panther. 

That was the final artwork to look at before he entered the second room. As he walked down the joining corridor, he glanced at his watch. Oh goodness, Aziraphale had spent over an hour in the gallery already. Only a few other people were in the space with him. It would close at five and he _had_ to see all of Crowley’s work before then. He didn’t think he would get up the nerve to come back. It was too much. 

The small blank corridor opened up to a room. Perhaps it could be classified as an antechamber as it wasn’t particularly large. A single object rested in the centre of the back wall. A plaque on the floor rested beneath it. 

Aziraphale’s eyes fixed onto the text as he approached. 

_Forbidden_

It was an apple. Unnaturally perfect and red. The red of blood, made out of hundreds of rose petals, somehow joined together to form the solid mass. It… floated, for lack of a better word, above a sculpted clay palm. Open, waiting. Perhaps _willing_ the fruit to drop down into it, actively submitting to temptation. The apple was whole except for the bite on the right side. It revealed a dark void in which glowing lights throbbed in branching veins. The whole universe, inside the fruit, inside one’s palm. 

Even if anyone had entered the room, Aziraphale wouldn’t have paid them any mind. He was overcome, truly, by the beauty of Crowley’s art. His _soul._

Tears welled up into his eyes without permission. They had never really discussed religion—Crowley seemed like the non-believer type, and Aziraphale thought it was a very personal thing, between himself and Whoever. But this cut right to the core of him. Wasn’t that what Aziraphale was afraid of, when it came down to it? Knowledge and those who wielded it. People knowing too much about him, knowing the wrong things.

He was scared of the things he knew, too, deep down within himself. 

All at once, the world crystallised in place. Aziraphale stood still, but it was as if he had been jolted awake. 

He loved Crowley. 

He was _in_ love with Crowley.

His shaking hand pressed against his mouth as he tried to stop a scream from coming out. 

At that very opportune moment, the same staff member from earlier click-clacked into the room. 

“We’re closing in twenty minutes, Mr. Lord.”

Aziraphale nodded at her and tried to make the visible section of his face somewhat reassuring. He didn’t trust his voice to answer. 

She gave a small, professional smile back and exited the room. 

He lowered his hand to his side and wrapped his arms around himself. It was a poor substitution for a hug. 

Somehow, Aziraphale navigated the hallways out of the exhibit and out of the gallery. He hardly looked back, not even when the member of staff called out a goodbye. 

The sun was somewhat low in the sky, now, as Aziraphale stumbled down the stairs. He dropped the keys as he fumbled with them to get the car door open. He cursed under his breath and picked them up, getting them in the lock after three wrong stabs. He wrenched the door open and fell in, slammed it behind him, and placed his head in his hands. 

Despite being in an even smaller space, he found it easier to breathe, and Aziraphale came back to the world around him, for the moment at least. It was still daylight on a public street, and people were around. He wasn’t in a state to drive, but knew he should try to make himself a little less conspicuous. He turned on the radio. 

The final bars of some tune filled the car and gave way to a radio announcer dedicating the next song “ _to all the lovers out there.”_ Aziraphale knew what it was almost immediately, and he succumbed to the sobs that had threatened to overtake him in the gallery. 

He loved Crowley. Which should be a wonderful, beautiful thing. But would Crowley ever love him? _Could_ Crowley ever love him? 

Of course he couldn’t. Wouldn’t. A man like him, handsome and attractive and well-to-do. With someone like Aziraphale? He was kidding himself. 

But he doubted he could hide this for very long. Sure, Aziraphale was a well-versed actor in keeping his emotions in check. But he felt almost wild with feeling and doubted very much he would be able to conceal it from his friend. Oh, but it would change everything, wouldn’t it? If he confessed. 

It was a matter of honesty, though. Out of everyone Aziraphale knew, he had found himself suddenly more truthful with Crowley than anyone else ever in his life. And he knew Crowley to be the same with him.

Aziraphale wiped uselessly at his tear-stained face. He caught a glance of himself in the mirror—red eyes and pink, wet cheeks. He looked a right mess. He sighed and sank back into the seat, tipped his head towards the ceiling. 

But what if Crowley took the news well? That whole angel business certainly was a bit unusual. The flowers. Their conversations… What if it meant something other than pure friendship? 

As Aziraphale let himself entertain the notion, he felt his heart flutter in excitement. He couldn’t rule anything out. Hope for the best but expect the worse, as mother would say. 

Aziraphale used his handkerchief to wipe at his face again and tucked it away. Once Crowley was back in town, he would tell him. Either way, he would know where he stood. 

Resolved, Aziraphale put the key into the ignition. He had a speech to write. 


	9. You're Sensational (That's All)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> after a long discussion with my ever-patient beta, the posting of the alternating timelines has been slightly changed! until the rest of the 'past' chapters have been posted, there will be two for every 'current' chapter instead of alternating each update. so this immediately follow chapter 8 (very exciting!). chapter 10 will include some reporter hijinks in the present day, then there will be two chapters from the past etc. 
> 
> basically this means you'll get the entirety of Aziraphale and Crowley's backstory before we start leading up to the wedding properly (which is so much better, thank you ZehWulf). each of the past chapters will still have the approximate time reminder at the start, so hopefully there's minimal confusion. 
> 
> also, LEMONS AHEAD! if you don't want to read Crowley's private time, skip from when he wakes up to the next "~~~~~" divider (from 2 to 3 out of the 5 matches if you ctrl + F). the fic rating has been updated to reflect this. 
> 
> cw: nsfw content as mentioned above, Crowley's cheating/emotionally abusive ex is very briefly discussed, references to arranged marriage/Aziraphale's father only valuing family related by blood 
> 
> we have reached maximum rom com folks and tbh this is one of my favourite chapters I've written so far, I really hope you like it!
> 
> beta'd by the magnificent ZehWulf :)

_Approximately two years ago…_

Crowley regretted what he had said as soon as he hung up the phone. He didn’t know if it would be worse if Aziraphale saw his exhibition or didn’t. At least if he went with him, he would have been able to gauge his reaction. He couldn’t think about it now.

He hastily shoved the rest of his clothes into his bag and hoisted it over his shoulder. The opportunity Harriet would be granting him could change _everything_ , launch his career properly. He had to focus on that, on making a good impression, on keeping himself on the road while _not_ thinking about a certain angel. 

It was ridiculous how much Crowley thought about Aziraphale. Constant, like his heartbeat. The first thing when he woke up, and the last before he fell asleep, and all through his dreams: Aziraphale. 

Crowley had never felt like this. As he sped down the motorway, the world rushing by, he was reminded of Lucius. His first lover. Or at least, he had thought it was love. Infatuation, more like. Attention from an older man who thought he was so _wise_ and _smart_ and _charming._ It was a quick spiral down, but of course it couldn’t last. Crowley was said to be too clingy, too needy. Demanded too much of Lucius’s attention and time and affection. It wasn’t that Crowley himself had been charming, but his money had certainly tempted the man. 

When he begged for them to stay home, enjoy some quiet time together, he was laughed off. Every night out was spent trying and failing to capture Lucius’s attention. He was always preoccupied with someone prettier and younger than Crowley. When it ended, though, Crowley was heartbroken. He had foolishly thought it would all work out. Lucius would settle down, realise how much he loved Crowley, and they would live happily ever after. He winced, thinking about it now. 

And Crowley hadn’t looked at anyone since. He hadn’t thought he needed to, and it had taken a long time to recover. He wasn’t necessarily _happy,_ but he was content in his role of aloof bachelor. He had enough money for it, for no one to question it. At least to his face. 

But then Aziraphale had thrown off his routine orbit completely. Crowley had sworn off friends, too, since the breakup. No one but coworkers and acquaintances and staff. But then, Aziraphale had suddenly appeared, and Crowley couldn’t help but be drawn to him again and again. He was so beautiful and funny and charming. Kind and cutting in turn; well-spoken, fussy, passionate. Crowley felt honoured to be around him. 

Then, all of a sudden, out of the blue, it had hit him. A series of dreams where he woke up in a cold sweat, hard and confused. Bouts of nausea for seemingly no reason. An uncharacteristic nervousness around his neighbour. Crowley _giggled,_ for fuck’s sake. All of his thoughts somehow connected to Aziraphale, all of his body seemed trained toward the other man. It wasn’t that youthful infatuation he had felt long ago. It wasn’t even purely physical (though Crowley had little experience with that). He _loved_ Aziraphale. 

At first Crowley tried to deny it. He suppressed it within himself. He was just really eager to have a proper friend after all this time. Right? It was like trying to stop water leaking out a sieve. Pointless. Futile. 

Somewhere in the middle was a brief period of Crowley being almost angry at Aziraphale, for coming along and causing all these unnecessary _feelings._ That soon dissolved after a single, beautiful smile. 

Crowley flitted back between accepting the situation and, well, feeling extremely sorry for himself. The latter happened mostly late at night when he was alone and reliving every single moment of interaction with Aziraphale he had ever had and cringing at his embarrassing obviousness. Even when Crowley was more realistic about the situation, he knew that Aziraphale would never love him. 

And that was okay. 

The angel deserved to be loved, even if he didn’t reciprocate, so Crowley was going to do his very best to make sure that were true. 

It was hard to keep his cool when Aziraphale looked at him like that, though. Like he was _good_. Like he was deserving. Like Crowley made him happy. The only half-decent thing Crowley had ever wanted to do. 

And the touches. 

They were less frequent than the smiles. Aziraphale was still bound by some sense of propriety. But when they did happen, Crowley felt two seconds away from collapsing to the ground. Not just his knees but his whole being went weak at the tiniest of presses, the barely-there heat from Aziraphale’s existence. He tripped, over words and his own feet, and then Aziraphale would give him an indulgent, well-aren’t-you-silly-but-I-like-you-anyway smile, and Crowley would feel his heart try to escape his chest. 

So it was okay. But that didn’t mean it was easy. 

A faint thread of hope did tend to keep Crowley up at night. One day, when Aziraphale was over for a drink, he had seemed… annoyed. Frustrated. And Crowley couldn’t leave well enough so alone, so he poked and prodded until Aziraphale came out with it. 

Michael, his somewhat-cousin and frequent pain in his side, who ran in the same circles but cared more about the bottom line than anyone’s feelings, had, apparently, been trying to matchmake Aziraphale with a “nice girl.” Aziraphale relayed this to Crowley as he paced up and down the length of the study, a glass of scotch quickly drained from his glass. 

“I suppose it wouldn’t be that bad if they were _actually_ nice. But knowing Michael, they’ve minds for business and little else,” he said and knocked down the last of the scotch. 

Crowley made an affirming noise from where he watched on the sofa. 

“She says it would be _statistically likely_ for us to have a successful marriage. Not happy, mind you. Successful,” Aziraphale repeated bitterly. 

“Lord knows it would make father happy,” he continued, mostly to himself as he stared at the opposite wall. “Bloodlines and all that. As if there aren’t so many children in the world needing a home to begin with. I don’t know if I even want children, but he’s all about heirs and lineage and ‘family.’ His definition of it, anyway.” 

Crowley watched Aziraphale’s back in silence. He didn’t really know what to say. 

“In any case, I don’t think a union with a lady is in the cards for me, no matter how lovely she may be. Certainly not one that _Michael_ of all people has picked out.” 

The scotch in Crowley’s mouth got caught in his throat at that announcement, and he had to cough to not choke. Aziraphale turned, face one of pure concern at his friend’s predicament. Crowley waved him off as he tried to get himself under control. 

After a few embarrassing moments, he had swallowed and gasped for breath. That would have taken the cake, Crowley dying because Aziraphale told him he was gay. Or at least, not interested in women. Or maybe just not wanting to get married. 

Aziraphale had quickly turned the conversation to calmer waters, but that didn’t stop Crowley from replaying the conversation over and over in his head. He tried not to let himself hope. They would be friends, and that would be enough. It had to be. 

A man like Crowley could never settle down, anyway. With his career taking off and his stellar personality, he wasn’t the marrying kind. It would be unfair to Aziraphale to get him tangled up with all of Crowley’s mess. 

Friends it was. Friends. Friends rang each other when they were away, right? At least, that was what Crowley told himself as he dialed Aziraphale’s number when he got to the hotel. 

“Aziraphale Lord speaking.” 

“Hey, Aziraphale, it’s Crowley.” 

“Oh, _Crowley!_ How are you, my dear? Got to the hotel all right?” 

The phone cord made its way to be wrapped around Crowley’s finger. “Yeah, thanks, angel. Drive was fine and all.” _The country sky made me think of your eyes._ “Hnngh, anyway, how are you? Holding down the fort in my absence?”

“Yes, I do believe I am managing. Father’s still away, so I am apparently the man of the house, though Mother doesn’t seem to care about that at all, only our… friends. Never mind that, though,” Aziraphale said with a sigh. “Warlock misses you.” 

Crowley’s heart clenched. “Must be the only one.”

“Crowley, I…” 

A pause of shaky breath. 

Crowley strained his ears to hear anything. “Yeah?” 

Aziraphale let out another sigh. “When you return, may we speak? Perhaps you could come over for a drink?” 

Since when did their socialising require permission? Crowley only grew more concerned at what Aziraphale could possibly want to talk about. Maybe this was all coming to an end. 

“Yeah, of course,” he replied quietly. He couldn’t deny Aziraphale anything. 

“I should probably let you settle in. No doubt you’re tired from the journey. Sleep well, Crowley.”

“Thanks. You too.” 

A hollow click. 

Crowley put the phone down in shock and fell back to the bed. What could Aziraphale possibly want to talk about? What if he wanted to end their friendship? What if he had realised what Crowley felt? 

He turned over roughly and shoved his face into the pillow. Crowley felt suddenly exhausted. He thought he finally had a good thing, but it was foolish of him to hope. 

His eyes drifted shut, images of Aziraphale playing in his mind. 

~~~~~

Warm. He was so warm. Crowley kicked off the blankets as he slid into consciousness. Where was he? 

A minute or five passed, and he turned to check the bedside clock. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. Two in the morning. Oh right. Scotland. 

Crowley slowly gained awareness of his body and realised he was achingly hard. The dream he had been having melted into snapshots of heat and touch, lingering in the corners of his mind. 

His hand slid down to cup himself over the thin fabric of his pajamas, and he immediately thrust into it. It felt _so_ good. With sleep-clumsy hands, he fumbled his trousers open and hastily shoved them and his pants down. He kicked them off towards the end of the bed as he grabbed his dripping erection. 

Crowley’s other hand slipped under his shirt and brushed against his nipple. He let out a low moan as he gave in to the dual sensation. 

He held himself in a fist and pumped up and down, over and over, as he tried to recapture the feeling from his dream. He had been kissing someone, and then he was naked in their lap, squirming. Crowley pumped faster as he imagined it. More kissing and a warm, soft hand over his cock. 

The feeling, more than the sound, of someone calling him _darling,_ right against his ear. 

Crowley moaned as he came over his hand, thrusting with the aftershocks before he let go. He collapsed back to the bed and panted as he recovered from his orgasm. After a few moments, he used his clean hand to turn on the lamp, winced at the sudden light, and grabbed a tissue to clean himself off. He still felt unpleasantly sticky, and Crowley stumbled into the bathroom to wash up properly. 

On his way back, he pulled on the discarded pair of pants and shoved the sheets back into some semblance of order. Crowley climbed back into bed and turned off the light. 

~~~~~

Crowley’s meeting with Harriet—a woman with piercing eyes who had quickly become a formidable figure in the art world—unknowingly set in motion the mechanics that would launch his career into the stratosphere. At the same time a country away, Aziraphale tread the floorboards of his home as he attempted to find the words to truly communicate to Crowley all that he felt. 

He didn’t necessarily want to prepare a speech—no doubt that would come across as overly formal and unfeeling—but he needed to have some sort of foundation. He knew his anxiety was more than likely to get the best of him. 

Aziraphale had initially considered reciting poetry. That would be alright if he were receiving the declaration, but Crowley would probably interpret it as “flouncy nonsense.” Usually he was so _good_ with words, but now it seemed like his love for Crowley had swallowed them all right up. 

He wanted it to go well. He wanted it to be perfect. Everything in Aziraphale’s life was particular and precise. His hair and clothing and mannerisms. He controlled himself and thus his appearance. Others saw him only as he wished them to. And then Crowley happened. 

Crowley made him laugh until he cried, somehow pried open his mouth and his heart, and all his true feelings kept spilling out. His gossip and sense of humour and his passions—all were shared eagerly without his permission, pouring out of him like a river that could not be dammed. And Aziraphale _liked_ it. Liked the version of himself that he was around Crowley. Carefree and happy. 

Crowley made him so incredibly happy. 

Aziraphale stopped his pacing in front of the window. He had been wandering around his floor, unseeing, but of course had found himself again staring across to Crowley’s home. Drawn there again and again like a beacon. 

Maybe it didn’t have to be perfect. 

Perhaps it could just be true. 

~~~~~

Crowley shook Harriet’s hand for a third time and almost but not quite tripped over his feet as he got in the car. He couldn’t keep the grin off his face as he sped back to the hotel. 

The meeting had gone so well. Far better than he could have ever hoped. Harriet was well-known to be cold and professional, but she had soon warmed up to Crowley. Or at least, he thought she did. 

In any case, she seemed impressed and almost eager to begin working with him. It was to be his largest exhibition so far. The prime real estate of the gallery dedicated to him. 

He had shown her his sketches—carefully selected out of the pile of ideas as the best ones—and she had loved each of them. Harriet hadn’t been able to come down and see Origins herself but had sent an assistant who had, apparently, thoroughly reported back. Harriet referenced Crowley’s work to his face. What even was his life? 

Crowley was so happy and so excited. He was still pumped full of adrenaline as he drove back, but all he wanted to really do was go home and tell Aziraphale. When had he started to think of Heathcote as home? 

Never mind that now. One step at a time. He would go to his room, pack, and check out. He would drive—fast, but safely—back to his house. He would call Aziraphale, and he would go over for that drink, and they would talk. One foot in front of the other. 

~~~~~

The rest of the afternoon passed in a daze. Aziraphale ate and talked with his mother and tidied some more. It appeared he was a hundred pages deeper in the novel he was reading, though he couldn’t recall any of the words he had read. All his thoughts were of Crowley. Every beat of his heart, every breath from his lungs. _Crowley, Crowley, Crowley._ Aziraphale found himself startling at the faintest sound, rushing to the window if he heard a car drive by. 

It was only as the sun began to set and Aziraphale was sat out on their patio that Crowley’s ridiculous car pulled up the driveway. 

Aziraphale shot up, and his tea sloshed over the rim of the cup in his haste. He stood and stared, waiting for the pinprick figure of black in the golden light to emerge. 

_There._ Crowley was back. He was home. He disappeared inside, and Aziraphale remained there for one, two moments then realised his foolishness. 

He drained the remaining tea and picked up the pace as he almost-ran to his bedroom. He bumped into Clarence on the way, who began to ask if the tea service was to his liking, but Aziraphale could hardly think of _tea_ at a time like this. 

He climbed the stairs up and up, paced down the hall, and hurried into his room. 

The sound of the phone ringing was the most glorious thing he had ever heard. 

Aziraphale ran to his bedside—there was no one there to watch him, now—and slammed the receiver to his ear. 

“Hello?” He held his breath as he waited for a response.

“Hey, Aziraphale! Just wanted to let you know I was back,” Crowley said on the other line. 

Pure relief coursed through his veins. “Thank you, my dear.” He then remembered what he had asked. “Ah. I should probably let you get settled, yes? But do come over for that drink whenever you like, goodness knows I have no—”

“Now?”

“—plans,” Aziraphale finished. 

Crowley cleared his throat. “I could come over now, I mean. If you’re free.”

“Yes,” he answered before really thinking it through. “Yes, I’m free. If you want to come over.”

“All right. I will.” 

“All right.” Oh god. “I’ll meet you outside, then. Scotch?”

“Sure. See you soon.”

Oh dear, Aziraphale thought to himself. He thought he would have more _time._

He turned to the nearby mirror. He looked a right mess, not having glanced at himself since he dressed that morning. 

Quickly, with trembling hands, he stripped off his jacket and bow tie. His trousers were fine, but his shirt was wrinkled and stale from the day’s use. 

Aziraphale fumbled with the buttons and managed to get both items of clothing off. There was no time to fold the discarded items. 

He picked the first shirt from his closet and pulled it over his shoulders. He walked over to the window as he put it on and cursed under his breath as he saw Crowley had begun to slowly make his way across the expanse of lawn. 

Aziraphale haphazardly tucked his shirt in and pocketed his cufflinks as he raced down the stairs. 

“Clarence!” he called as he caught sight of the butler. “Scotch, please. Two glasses. Patio.” 

Clarence turned around with a shocked expression as he caught sight of the young master. 

His training kicked in, and he nodded swiftly, disappearing to fulfill the request. Aziraphale barely gave him a second glance as he burst out onto the patio with a final click of a cufflink. 

Crowley was only a short distance away, and he cut such a fine figure that he stole Aziraphale’s breath. His long form, clad in his signature dark clothing, strolled towards Aziraphale with intent. The sun had almost completely set, and the faint twinkle of stars had just begun to dance at the sky’s edge. The air was cool—Aziraphale felt it through his thin shirt—and the light had turned the indigo of late evening. The vastness of the world had fallen away to cloak them in the scent of jasmine and longing. The whole universe reduced to two men and their beating hearts. 

It felt unreal, like Crowley was the rakish hero of one of Aziraphale’s books, returning home to meet his love. 

But it was real. They weren’t characters in a story. They bled and broke as humans did. A happy ending wasn’t guaranteed, no matter how much Aziraphale hoped for one. 

Clarence near-silently emerged and slid the tray onto the table, then disappeared from whence he came. Aziraphale hardly noticed. His whole existence was trained towards the man before him. 

As Crowley reached the edge of the patio, it was like life sped up again. Aziraphale almost lurched with the shock of it. He was close enough now to see the strands of hair that had come loose around his face, his fine nose, his eyes. Aziraphale had seen his eyes only a handful of times, but now his usual glasses were nowhere to be seen. Not even pushed up to the top of his head. Aziraphale felt himself almost lose nerve at that alone. 

Crowley plastered on a grin. Even in the low light, Aziraphale could sense it was forced. He suddenly felt incredibly small, standing there in front of his friend, none of his usual layers to protect him. 

He had to continue, though. If he didn’t now, he never would. 

Aziraphale crossed the short distance and put on a face much braver than he felt. 

“Welcome home,” he said and extended his hand. Crowley took it with a small smile. The brief press of their palms together was electrifying. 

“Drink?” Aziraphale asked as they separated. 

Crowley nodded. “Please.” 

Aziraphale turned to fuss with the drinks. He placed two ice cubes into Crowley’s and handed it over. Their fingers brushed, and he quickly turned to pick up his own undiluted scotch. 

They were still standing up, not quite shoulder to shoulder, but Aziraphale didn’t think he could do this sitting across from one another. He felt ready to flee at any moment. “How was the meeting?” That would be a safe topic, right?

Crowley shrugged. “Good. It went really well, I think. Harriet’s gonna give me an exhibition,” he mumbled into his glass. 

An exhibition! “Crowley, that’s excellent! I’m so pleased for you.”

“Thanks.” He blushed, and looked away. 

They stood there in silence, sipping on their drinks and not looking at each other. Aziraphale studied Crowley’s beautiful profile as he tried to gather up the courage to speak his heart. 

Crowley turned his head to look at him and beat him to the punch. 

“Why did you invite me here, Aziraphale? Not that this isn’t nice, but. You sounded serious, on the phone.”

Aziraphale put his glass down on the nearby table. The alcohol and the anxiety had made him incredibly warm, and he took a moment to roll up his sleeves. He suddenly had no idea what to do with his hands, now that they weren’t occupied with holding a glass. He ended up with his hands on his hips as he faced Crowley at a perpendicular angle. Crowley still stared off ahead. 

“I’m sorry if I’ve given you cause for concern. I need to tell you something and I’m not sure how you will react. I’m unsure as to whether our friendship will continue after and, well. Better to rip the bandage off, I suppose.” 

“Aziraphale…” Crowley sighed, “just tell me.”

He couldn’t stop now. “AJ Crowley Haven, before I met you, I thought you were a menace. I believed you wouldn’t fit here, in Heathcote, in this world. I didn’t understand your work—nor did I wish to. Your clothing and glasses and ridiculous car all put me off and seemed to confirm my initial—harsh—judgements. And yet, you became my friend. The first real friend of my life.”

Beside him, Crowley made a small noise of protest. 

“And I didn’t want you to! You ruined my composure, occupied far more of my thoughts than I wished to, entrenched yourself in my family, and made me nonsensically happy.”

Crowley had become still beside him, and Aziraphale had to close his eyes to continue on. 

“You make me happy, Crowley,” he confessed. Aziraphale immediately wanted to stuff those words back in his mouth. He briefly reopened his eyes to grab his glass and drain it. He really was doing this, then. 

“I saw your exhibition. It was exquisite. Indescribable. And when I came to the end I broke down crying, I was so overcome. I realised I missed you, Crowley.” Aziraphale wrapped his arms around himself. The chill of the night air had begun to set in and seeped through his thin shirt. “Your commentary and jokes. Your companionship. Your warmth next to mine. That smile you try to hide but never quite manage. And… I realised something else. I love you. I’m in love with you, Crowley.”

Aziraphale’s eyes drifted open. Crowley was stood next to him, almost as still as a statue. His glass was paused halfway to his mouth and his beautiful eyes were incredibly wide. 

“You _what_?”

Aziraphale’s brow crinkled. Oh dear. “I’m in love with you,” he repeated. It was somehow easier to say the second time but hurt even more. 

Silence fell between them. 

“I understand if you don’t feel the same way—goodness knows I’m not unaware of my faults—but I thought it best to tell you in case it changes things, rather than conceal it and have this, well, dishonesty between us—” The rejection crept in, numbing him at the edges.

“I love you!” 

Aziraphale blinked at the sudden interruption. He couldn’t have heard Crowley correctly, not after his cold reaction to his declaration. He opened his mouth to speak, but Crowley continued on. 

“God, Aziraphale. I thought you were coming over to end things between us,” he said as he ran a hand through his red hair. “I love you,” he said more quietly. “I’m surprised you didn’t know, I thought I was so obvious…”

Aziraphale made a confused sound. _Crowley_ was obvious? 

“Aziraphale, _angel_.” Crowley took a step to put his own glass down, his warmth brushing past Aziraphale for a brief, intoxicating moment. He faced him head on as the words came tumbling out.

“All I did was make a fool of myself around you. The pet name and my awful jokes and trying to be cool and flirting to no avail. I lost all sense of coherent thought or speech whenever we were together. No one has ever made me feel like you do. I never thought someone like _you_ would ever like me, let alone…”

“Love?”

“Yeah.”

Crowley suddenly grabbed his hands. “I love you, Aziraphale Lord,” Crowley choked out through tears. Aziraphale squeezed their joined hands and felt his own eyes well up. 

Oh. Crowley loved him back. Aziraphale felt his cheeks taut with his smile and saw Crowley was the same. They were both crying like fools as the sun dipped finally below the horizon and they were alone in the dark. 

They looked into each other’s eyes, wet and wide with joy, then Crowley _pulled_ Aziraphale against him. He stumbled and fell against the man, but Crowley held him up. They were embracing. 

It was so warm. It was so right. It felt like home. 

Aziraphale was so happy. There was no other word for it. All the feelings he had tried denying and then had to hide had been heard and reciprocated. 

He pulled back enough to look at his beloved. He couldn’t help but reach up and place a hand on his cheek. “May I kiss you, darling?” 

Crowley hastily wiped at his eyes to remove some of the wetness that clung to him. 

“Yeah. Please.” 

It was only a few centimetres for their lips to touch. At first it was only a light press. It seemed both were still hesitant. A pause, a breath, and it sank it that this was _real._ With greater confidence Aziraphale pressed closer, his other hand buried in Crowley’s gorgeous hair as they continued to kiss. 

When they separated sometime later, it was completely dark out. There were exterior lights on the house, but they barely made a difference. It was just Aziraphale and Crowley and the stars dancing above them. The moon’s light shone on their tear tracks as unstoppable loveflowed between them. 


	10. Fate Might Miscarry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: fatphobia/body shaming from Gabriel, mention of alcohol used to cope with distress
> 
> next update may take a while longer than the recent ones (perhaps a month or so) since i am dealing with assignments/end of semester/recovering from semester and nanowrimo. this is a giant chapter to make up for it though, so enjoy and subscribe!
> 
> beta'd by the dazzling ZehWulf

Aziraphale tossed the folded woolen trousers into his open suitcase with more force than intended. Why was this so _difficult_? One would think packing for one’s honeymoon would be a lot more exciting and involve far less clothing. But it wasn’t even a proper honeymoon. Lord & Smith were in the process of a very large acquisition. Or deal. Or something very important that Gabriel simply _couldn’t_ be taken away from. So Aziraphale would be moving into his flat in the city, and they would start house hunting in their free time. Gabriel had promised him that eventually they would take the holiday, but for the foreseeable future it would be quite inconvenient, and didn’t he understand? 

Of course Aziraphale understood. He just didn’t particularly like it. The stress of wedding planning had been affecting him long before journalists and his ex-husband turned up. He was looking forward to when it was all behind him, really. He was excited about his wedding day, certainly, but it was taking an awful lot of work to get there. 

And now it was all to be recorded and observed by _press hounds._ It was truly loathsome. Liz didn’t seem to be too hard-hitting of a journalist, thankfully. Really she was quite timid, when Aziraphale came to think about it. Ms. Device seemed sharp as a tack in all senses of the word, and Aziraphale would have to be careful not to make a misstep. Gabriel seemed to know all about the whole affair—and hadn’t told him, despite how much Aziraphale _hated_ surprises. When Aziraphale had questioned him about it, he was dismissed with a line about how Gabriel’s assistant had approved it, or something. It was no matter now—they were already here—but it was incredibly frustrating. 

Aziraphale sunk down on the small space of bed not covered in his possessions and sighed. Crowley, too, was throwing a spanner in the works, as he always did. Returning and… loitering about like that. Aziraphale half expected him to jump out from a dark corner at any moment. Why couldn’t anything in Aziraphale’s life be simple? Not even filling a suitcase was easy.

He didn’t really understand _why_ the packing was so difficult. He was to be in the heart of London with his equally wealthy husband—if he needed something, he could simply purchase it. Sighing to himself, Aziraphale grabbed the already-packed items out of the case. It would be best to start at the beginning. 

As he made his way past the layer of pale shirts and tartan socks, his hand bumped into something cold and hard. 

Not again. 

Aziraphale threw the last items in his way out onto the bedspread and grabbed the hidden picture frame. He flipped it over. 

“Warlock!” Aziraphale couldn’t help but yell, even though Warlock could be anywhere in the house. That damn picture again. Did his brother think it was funny, to remind him of his pain and heartbreak? To rub it in some more? Aziraphale didn’t think it was. 

He certainly didn’t need the reminder, since Crowley seemed so determined to wedge himself back into all of their lives. Aziraphale shook himself, and realised he had been stroking the edge of the silver frame with a finger. He hastily threw it onto the bed, away from him. 

It landed face-up, and Crowley’s gaze seemed locked onto his. 

The stress must really be getting to him, Aziraphale thought, slightly hysterically. A still photograph, _staring_ at him like that. He ran a hand through his hair and strode around the bed to fall into the chair by the window. It brought him closer to the photograph, but at least he wasn’t going to collapse to the ground. 

It really was quite unfair, both of Warlock for hiding the image again and again, and for Crowley to be that handsome. It truly was a lovely photo, even if Aziraphale couldn’t stand the subject of it. That gorgeous hair… Aziraphale’s head rolled back to stare at the ceiling. 

What was he thinking? All of his thoughts should be of his fiancé, of Gabriel, not of his ex. Especially with everything happening now. Especially with how things ended. 

But it wasn’t all bad. That was the saddest thing about it all. There were nice times. Outright lovely ones, really. The shared dinners, walks through Crowley’s garden, their sublime honeymoon… it was all so easy, until it wasn’t. 

Aziraphale stretched and picked up the frame once more to look at it. What would Crowley do, at a time like this? Maybe it was a ridiculous thought, but Crowley had been a great source of strength, once. Outside of this, this anxiety and fear. Crowley was always confident and reckless and charming. Aziraphale never was, but he thought he could be, with Crowley by his side. What would Crowley do, with reporters breathing down his neck, a busy, barely-there fiancé, and a wedding on the horizon? 

He would don his armour and saunter into battle. Aziraphale knew deep down how vulnerable Crowley could be. But he never let it show. 

Aziraphale would approach this situation the very same way. And he would do it with style. 

~~~~~

Liz did her best not to gawk when they pulled up to the Lord property. Mansion wasn’t apparently the used term, but she thought it was fitting. It was a huge, pale house on a stretching plot of land. Liz had rarely come to this part of town for work and certainly didn’t have reason to in her down time. 

Anathema seemed fine with all of this. Anathema seemed fine with pretty much everything—the attractive American had quickly climbed her way up the office ladder and into Liz’s affections. Not that she knew that, of course. They were situated at opposite ends of the floor and hadn’t worked together before this assignment. Liz was just a journalist, a writer, and a journalist… noticed things. Like the way Anathema walked down the halls with pure confidence. Like how gorgeous she was. Like how good she smelled. 

Of course, she was a skilled photographer as well. Liz simply tended to become… distracted.

Her arguably tiny crush was now a few centimetres away in Liz’s awful car. Anathema shouldn’t be in a vehicle like this hunk of clattering metal. But it was hardly the time to think about that in the face of Aziraphle Lord and Crowley Haven and everything their world entailed. 

Liz parked at the end of the long gravel drive and attempted to gather her wits before she exited the car. Anathema had already alighted and was smoothing down her skirts. Liz blew out a breath in hopes of steeling herself and got out to join her in approaching the house. 

“Ready?” Anathema asked with her usual grin. The grin that meant she knew far more than anyone else in the room but she wouldn’t share unless it was “cosmically” relevant. The grin that made Liz weak at the knees. 

Liz nodded, willing her cheeks not to flush this time. 

Clarence greeted them at the front door once again. 

“Good morning, ladies,” he said, with a suspicious look on his face. It seemed no one really trusted them quite yet. 

“Good morning!” Anathema chirped in reply. Liz offered a more subdued response. 

He gestured them into the house where they took off their coats. 

“So, um, Clarence, you said you can give us a tour of the Lord property, yes? You seemed to be the most knowledgeable member of staff,” Liz began. 

“I would hope so, seeing as I’ve been employed the longest,” he replied with a raised eyebrow.

Liz flipped open to a new page in her notebook. “And how long is that?”

“Nearly thirty years, now.”

“Impressive,” remarked Anathema. 

Clarence inclined his head. “I believe in committing to things, shall we say.” 

Liz looked up from where she had been reviewing her questions. The pair before her seemed to be having a silent standoff of some kind. 

“Should we get started, then?” Liz asked, which broke the spell. 

Clarence dipped his head and led them down the corridor. 

~~~~~ 

“... and then it was inherited by Mr. Lord when he came of age,” Clarence said as he finished showing them around the first floor. They had seen the east parlour again, as well as the ballroom, the formal dining room, the informal dining room, and had ended up in the south parlour. Anathema looked forward to properly poking around the piles of wedding presents that had accumulated there, preferably without butler supervision.

“And where is Mr. Lord, currently?” Anathema asked as she politely examined a strange silver object that looked like a sort of very round hammer. She couldn’t read the energy on it. 

“Unfortunately, he won’t be able to make it to the wedding.”

Anathema put the object down and was going to repeat the question but thought better of it when she saw Liz’s face. That frown always meant she was being too nosy. 

Liz decidedly moved the line of questioning on as they ventured upstairs. “It certainly is a fascinating history. But, um, perhaps we can talk about Aziraphale, now? What was he like as a child?”

Clarence led them into the next room. “He was a quiet boy. He always had a passion for literature, which I am sure you see reflected in our library’s extensive collection.” 

He gestured to the tall, stuffed bookshelves that surrounded them. “He enjoyed spending time in the garden, also, or with the previous chef. Most of the time the young Mr. Lord kept to himself. He didn’t spend a lot of time with other children. Of course Mr. Lord senior did not—” Clarence cut himself off. “Shall we see the next room?” 

Liz and Anathema glanced at each other, then dutifully followed as he led them to the upstairs sitting room. 

“And what do you think of his upcoming wedding? A better match than the previous one?” 

“We all want to see Mr. Lord happy, of course. But only time will tell, I think.” Clarence spoke more to the window he was facing than either of them. 

Anathema watched as he stared thoughtfully into the distance. Liz glanced up from her finished notes and looked at her with confusion as to the butler’s contemplation. 

He suddenly turned to face them, hands clasped behind his back, as he pasted on a polite smile. “Perhaps it’s time you speak to the cook.” 

~~~~~ 

The chef was a much less intimidating subject than Clarence. Wanda was about a head shorter than Anathema with greying curly hair and pink cheeks. She had cheerfully stepped away from her work and invited the pair in to sit casually at the kitchen bench while she poured them tea. 

Liz gratefully took the cup as Wanda spoke unprompted. “Aziraphale is a lovely boy, isn’t he? I suppose he isn’t much of a boy anymore, but I can’t help but see him as a young lad, sneaking in here to have cake with me.”

She took hold of her notepad again. “It sounds like you two were close.”

Wanda smiled. “Still are, my dear, ever since I started here which was, oh, eighteen or so years ago now. Aziraphale appreciates my cooking like no other. He has a palate for wine. We’ve spent many nights like this, talking about food and wine and men, on occasion.” She winked at them. 

This was much better than trekking around the eerily empty house with Clarence. “Including Gabriel?” 

“Ah, well. Aziraphale is awful busy with this wedding business, isn’t he?” Wanda wiped nervously at her apron. “He hasn’t really had time since the engagement to see his old friend cook. He’s grown up, I suppose,” she said with a sigh.

Liz hoped she wasn’t about to step on anyone’s toes, but some questions had to be asked. “I know Gabriel is quite… an important man, in the world of business. He wouldn’t stop Aziraphale seeing you because of his station, would he?”

Wanda laughed. “You are a funny one, aren’t you? No, no. Mr. Wright doesn’t have time to think about silly old me. No, well. He doesn’t have the same passion for food, can I say that?”

Liz nodded. “Of course.”

“And I think maybe Aziraphale has taken that on a little. I can’t be sure, of course! But staff tend to pick up these things, you know.” 

Liz and Anathema both smiled in agreement and waited for her to continue. 

“I am a little worried about him. It really is a stressful time, it seems. Fortunately, I never had to go through that, ha!” 

“Does he seem stressed, then?”

She nodded. “Bit tired, too. Doesn’t seem so happy around meal times.”

Liz thought it best to change her line of questioning. “Well, it’s almost here, isn’t it? The big day?”

“Very true. Fingers crossed we all make it!” 

Anathema sipped at her tea quietly. It was strange for her to stay so silent, but Liz continued on. 

“Are you looking forward to it?” 

“Of course! Who doesn’t love a wedding? I’m not looking forward to my kitchen being taken over, mind you,” Wanda added conspiratorially. 

“Oh?”

“Mhmm. Mr. Wright’s hired some fancy caterers to come in. Said he didn’t want Aziraphale to worry about it. Nice gesture, I suppose.” 

Now that was interesting. “Do you know who’s picking the menu?” 

“Mr. Wright, I believe, has taken charge of this part of the planning,” she said diplomatically. 

Liz jotted down some more notes. “I see.”

“It’s the thought that counts, isn’t it?” Wanda asked, though Liz wasn’t sure if she was reassuring herself or them. 

Liz hoped her smile was comforting. It was time for the harder stuff. 

“I know this is a sensitive topic so only answer as much as you like. When it comes to, shall I say, romantic affairs, people often say they have a ‘type’ of partner they’re attracted to. You mentioned that you and Aziraphale have discussed this sort of thing in the past. Do you think Mr. Wright and Mr. Haven are very similar?” 

Wanda sipped her tea for a moment and thought. “It’s funny you should say that, with what we’ve been talking about with the menu and all. I just remembered the other day how Crowley would race over here after going to the markets.” She smiled at the recollection. 

“He’d come with all sorts of things, depending on the season. Berries, most often. Always for me to make something for Aziraphale with, and he always asked me not to tell. Wanted it to be a secret, you know. I think Aziraphale realised after they started going together, but Crowley started long before that happened.”

Liz forgot what she was meant to be doing as Wanda shared the sweet memory. 

Wanda shook her head and came back to herself. “Crowley was always like that. Kind, caring. Didn’t want anyone to know it, of course, with that whole rock and roll look he goes for. Mr. Wright is much more… independent, shall I say? Though I suppose it’s just a matter of age. He and Aziraphale can’t be in each other’s back pockets all the time, can they?” 

~~~~~ 

They met the housekeeper in the laundry, which was tucked away in a back corner of the ground floor. Liz was glad they had a tea break in between all the interviews—Clarence hadn’t exactly been slow paced as he gave them the tour. She was glad too that Anathema had accompanied her, even if it was less relevant to her work. Anathema had stopped at various points, seemingly at random, to snap a few pictures. At this point, Liz didn’t question it; it was just another one of her quirks. 

They made quick introductions with Ekene before Liz asked her first question. 

“Though lovely, of course, it’s going to be a big empty house soon with Aziraphale moving out,” they sighed as they folded some laundry. “I’m close to retirement, of course, so it doesn’t concern me as much. One does grow attached, you know, after so many years. Warlock growing up all alone, just his mother and staff for company…” 

“Are Warlock and Aziraphale close, then? There’s quite an age difference between them, clearly.” 

Ekene turned to face Liz and pulled at one of the curls near their cheek. “That’s a trickier question.” They let go and it sprung back into place. “They used to be thick as thieves. Warlock followed his brother around everywhere, as younger siblings tend to do. Always wanting to be read to, for Aziraphale to play with him. It was harder, as Aziraphale got older.”

Liz frowned. “How do you mean?”

“Well. Mr. Lord had certain ideas of what Aziraphale as the oldest was meant to be like. He’s a very traditional man. Aziraphale was always so very much himself, and he found it so difficult to meet his father’s expectations. He pulled away from everyone, Warlock included. That was until…” They developed a pinched expression as they stopped talking. 

“Until?” 

“Well, until Mr. Haven.” 

“What changed when Mr. Haven came into Aziraphale’s life?”

Ekene bit their lip. “I’m not sure if I should say, really.” 

“We’re here to talk about Aziraphale’s life. If it’s part of his story, I want to hear about it.”

Ekene sighed. “Very well. Mr. Haven brought out a side of Aziraphale none of us had seen in a long time. He seemed happy.”

“Thank you. Now, what about Mr. Wright and the upcoming wedding? It’s being held here, correct?”

“Yes. In the ballroom.” 

“Are any guests coming to stay at the house? Friends, family perhaps?”

“A few cousins, closer to the date. As far as I’m aware, they’re only really arriving a day or two before. But knowing this family, anyone could turn up. Everyone seems to come out of the woodwork when there’s a party and a promise of an open bar. Always more work for me, of course.” They smiled wearily. 

~~~~~

Aziraphale wasn’t in the mood to pose and pretend that everything was all right, but he didn’t have the choice in the matter. He tried to remember his declaration from earlier—that he would be strong and stand tall, even if he wanted to retire to his room with a glass of wine. The suit Gabriel had picked out was lovely, he supposed, even if it wasn’t the style he favoured. In any case, the sooner they took these photographs, the sooner it would be over. Hopefully. 

He made his way down to the patio where they would be meeting the photographer. Mr. Zachary Shah was well known in Gabriel’s circles—apparently, he did _everyone’s_ wedding. Aziraphale had never been particularly comfortable in front of a camera, but it was just part and parcel of the whole marriage thing, it seemed.

Neither Gabriel nor the photographer had arrived, but Liz and Ms. Device were there to greet him. Just another two on Aziraphale’s very long list of current grievances. 

“Good afternoon,” he said in an attempt at politeness. 

“Hello, Aziraphale,” Ms. Device said brightly. Liz offered a more reserved, “Good afternoon.” 

“Come to watch the spectacle, have we?”

Anathema held up her camera. “Thought I might snap some of my own while we’re here. Kill two birds with one stone, save you some future posing.”

“I see. And our dear writer?”

Liz startled slightly at being addressed. “Um. Moral support? Anathema came with for the staff interviews, so it only seemed fair… I can leave if you want?” 

Aziraphale sighed. “It’s fine, Liz, really. I have a bit of a headache, don’t mind me.”

Gabriel fortunately chose that moment to arrive, and with him was Mr. Shah. 

“Isn’t this a cosy group!” Gabriel beamed as he clasped Aziraphale on the shoulder.

“I’m Zachary, obviously,” the photographer said after he wasn’t introduced. 

“Ms. Anathema Device.” 

“Miss Elizabeth Pulsifer. But Liz is more than fine.”

“Aziraphale Lord.” He offered his hand, which was looked at blankly, then reluctantly shaken. 

“Excellent, excellent,” Gabriel said. “Let’s get started.” 

Zachary returned to slowly, meticulously setting up his tripod after the handshake interrupted him.

“Babe, isn’t this exciting— _the_ Zachary Shah taking our photos? You never get this kind of artistry at your little functions.”

“Mm,” Aziraphale murmured as he examined his nails. He hadn’t had a proper manicure in far too long. All of his time had been devoured by the wedding. 

“Aziraphale? Aziraphale!” 

He looked up to see that everyone was watching him. It seemed the photographer was ready. 

“My apologies, it seems I went somewhere else for the moment.” 

Gabriel chuckled. “Stuck in one of your stories again, classic.” 

“Gentlemen, if you are indeed ready?”

“Yep, of course we are! Where do you want us?” Gabriel eagerly replied. 

Zachary waved them together to stand in front of the blank wall. “Gabriel, if you could stand like that behind Mr. Lord, your arms around him, thank you. Mr. Lord, look towards your fiancé.”

Aziraphale did his best to comply as Zachary ducked behind the camera. 

“Try not to look as if you’re being held hostage, Mr. Lord. And tuck your chin down.”

Aziraphale’s already plastered-on grin threatened to falter at the comment. It did nothing to relax him. 

A couple of clicks and they were directed into another position. Aziraphale glanced at Liz and Anathema out of the corner of his eye as they shuffled around. Liz looked worried about something, while Anathema’s gaze was trained on Zachary, not the camera in her hands. 

Now he and Gabriel had to face one another, holding hands and meant to look “like it was the first time they met.” 

Aziraphale had met Gabriel ten months ago at one of the many networking events Aziraphale was obliged to attend. It was the kind of thing where business people mingled with philanthropists to discover what kind of causes they could back. ~~And lower their taxes while gaining good publicity.~~ In all honestly, it was quite dull until Gabriel shoved himself into Aziraphale’s conversation. Unlike some, he hadn’t seemed put off by Aziraphale’s reputation, and his grating sense of humour had seemed almost charming. At least, to Aziraphale’s tipsy, freshly divorced mind it had. They had been made to pose quite similarly, shaking hands, a few weeks later as Gabriel backed a program for supporting girls’ physical education. 

Aziraphale couldn’t count the number of photographs he had been made to pose for now. He didn’t like the spotlight, but it was a necessary evil to help the people he wanted to help. He had been preened and posed and positioned since he had been able to stand by himself. Some photographs and situations were better; others, like this, made Aziraphale feel like a doll on display. Hollow and plastic, with no say in how he moved. 

Aziraphale dully registered another instruction to return to a similar position as the first. This time, they faced the camera. Gabriel was behind him once more but slightly off center, wrapping his arms around him and pressing a kiss to Aziraphale’s cheek. 

Not before Gabriel loudly asked: “Are you sure we want to emphasize… _that_ area?” Accompanied by a condescending pat to Aziraphale’s stomach. 

Zachary chuckled as Aziraphale’s blood ran cold. “Don’t worry. We can always crop it later.” 

Fortunately, Clarence emerged from the house and approached before the conversation could continue.

“Excuse me, everyone. Mr. Shah, you have a telephone call, if you’d like to follow me…?” Clarence politely glanced between Anathema and Aziraphale before he turned and led Zachary away. 

As soon as it was clear the photos were stopped for the moment, Gabriel let go and pulled out a small mirror to check his appearance. That was then followed by a comb from the same pocket. 

“Aziraphale?” 

He turned to find that Anathema had called his name. “Yes?” 

“Could I grab a few individual shots of you over by the hedge? Might as well take the opportunity.” 

Although Aziraphale had yet to warm up to Ms. Device, he would take any excuse to take his mind off what had just occurred. 

He dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Of course.” 

Aziraphale swept an arm out to indicate that Anathema should lead the way, and she began to walk off to the hedge, away from the patio, but not before shoving her colleague slightly towards his fiancé. 

“So, um, Gabriel, how are things at the… office?” Liz asked in the distance as the pair meandered further. 

“Just here, thank you,” Anathema said as she suddenly stopped. Aziraphale had to take a few steps back to catch up. 

“How do you want me?” Aziraphale said, no longer attempting to keep the exhaustion out of his voice. 

She held the camera up to her eye then lowered it slightly. “How would you like to be seen?” Anathema countered back.

It appeared she wasn’t pulling any punches. 

Aziraphale had the suspicion that nothing with Anathema was a surface-level question. Warlock had recounted to him her talk of auras when they first met. He claimed she was a witch. Although Aziraphale laughed his brother off and didn’t have much faith in those sorts of things himself, it was Anathema’s belief, and how strong it was, that mattered most. It was real to her. 

How _did_ he want to be seen? His image had seemed doomed for several years, and eventually Aziraphale stopped paying attention to it. Sudden elopement, then a divorce with a rising star of the art scene—it wasn’t what was expected of Aziraphale Lord at all. Then, of course, there was the whole business with Father, and all too soon Aziraphale was engaged again. That had redeemed him somewhat in the eyes of his peers. A sensible business decision, as his cousin Michael would call it. 

Aziraphale’s image in the eyes of those he helped hadn’t changed. He hoped mother didn’t think less of him—he was never quite sure if she was disappointed with him or if that was his own projection. Warlock had pulled away from him, and Aziraphale prayed it was just a matter of age. And Crowley, well, he claimed to still love him, though goodness knew why. 

Then, Aziraphale realised he had been contemplating silently for several minutes what everyone else thought of him and hadn’t even interrogated his own self-view. 

He let out a bitter laugh. “To be frank with you, my dear, I have absolutely no clue.” 

Anathema looked almost regretful at her line of questioning. “I’m sorry, Aziraphale. Liz always says I’m too curious for my own good.”

Aziraphale waved her off. “It’s all right. It seems like it’s that sort of day.” 

“I’m sorry for that, too. Especially for that… photographer, encouraging Gabriel.” 

“Gabriel has no idea what he says. Truly, it’s not your fault.” 

“I—” 

They were interrupted by Zachary returning from the house at a clip as he approached his equipment. 

Anathema and Aziraphale trailed behind to return to the official photographs. But curiously, he was quickly dismounting his camera and collapsing his tripod. 

“What do you mean, more important client?” Gabriel demanded. 

Zachary snorted as he snapped the camera case shut. “I _mean_ , the Mahajans are much richer than you and will pay me a lot of money to dash across town and take their wedding photos. The photographers they hired all worked for the same company, all down with the same food poisoning—can you believe it?” 

“You can’t just _leave,_ I hired you for another—” Gabriel checked his ostentatious watch. “—thirty minutes!” 

Zachary slung his equipment bag over his shoulder. “Thirty minutes I need to duck back home and grab some more gear. Better luck next time, mate. Good luck with the wedding and all.” He waved at the rest of the crowd and walked away. 

Gabriel gaped at him for a moment, turned to Aziraphale as if to say, “do something!” then turned back and started to follow Zachary out to the street as he walked to his car. 

Aziraphale, Anathema, and Liz watched on in varying stages of horror at the desperation on display. 

Aziraphale tipped his head towards the sky and closed his eyes as he attempted to remain composed despite the behaviour of his fiancé. He had a moment’s peace, then the all-too familiar sounds of a certain vehicle began to approach. 

“Oh, fuck.” Aziraphale felt all the colour drain from his face as he realised who was coming down the drive. 

“Uncle Shadwell! Whatever are you doing here?” Aziraphale called out as he quickly made his way across the patio and over to the parked car. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, it seemed. 

An older man with white hair and a beard got out of the clunky vehicle. “Don’t be daft, laddie, I’ve told you to call me Sergeant. And I’ve come for _your_ wedding—lest you’ve called it off. Have you?”

“What? No, no the wedding is still on. It’s on. I mean. But it isn’t for another week!” Why did this man always make him so flustered?

“Don't matter, does it? I’m here now, and I’m staying. Not making that drive again sooner than I need to.”

“Does Mother know about this?”

“Why would I have to tell her? Ain’t I family?”

Aziraphale tried to backpedal. “Of course. I mean. We weren’t expecting guests, and I don’t know if Ekene has aired the guest room—” 

“You’ve always been too soft. What’s a bit o’ dust to a man like me? Nothing compared to the eternal struggle against sorcery, is it?” He stared Aziraphale down, then pointed with his head. “And who are these?” 

Liz and Anathema had soon followed Aziraphale at the first signs of commotion but stood back a few metres away. 

Aziraphale tried to not buckle under the amount of stressors he had faced that day. “Uncle Shadwell, this is Elizabeth Pulsifer and Anathema Device. They work for the Celestial Observer. Liz, Ms. Device, this is my uncle… _Sergeant_ Shadwell, rather, who is apparently now staying with us until the wedding.” He gestured vaguely between the two parties, hoping that it would suffice for the introduction. 

Shadwell waved at them as he dumped his battered luggage next to the car. 

“A couple of no good, artist types, off course,” he grumbled loudly. “Thought you had moved on from those kinds of associates.” He slammed the boot, and Liz jumped. 

“It’s not as if I had a choice in the matter,” Aziraphale muttered petulantly. 

Shadwell began to approach the house, and Aziraphale rushed to keep up with him. “And where is that smarmy yank? I have to give him a talking to. Can’t have those sorts bloody taking over our country. You know I always say—”

“Sergeant?” Mother stood in the doorway and looked concerned at the appearance of her brother. 

“Peggy,” Shadwell replied. 

She crossed her arms. “I assume you’ve come for the wedding.”

“Indeed I ‘ave.”

“And you couldn’t have rung to inform us?”

“Can’t be letting the enemy know my plans now, can I? They’d be able to track my location. Never know what sorts of mischief they could achieve with tha’. Put a curse on me. Or worse,” he said gravely. 

She sighed and moved out of the way to let him in. “Of course. Well, I’m sure it was a treacherous drive, knowing what you’re like. You better come in and have some tea.” 

He patted a coat pocket, which appeared to hold a flask of some kind, and followed his sister into the house. 

The trio left outside stared at each other for a long moment. 

Aziraphale threw his hands up in the air and stalked off in frustration. A drink sounded awfully good right now. 


	11. Let Me Come To Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you were ever thinking about leaving a comment, now would be a great time because my life is falling apart at the seams (:
> 
> also can you believe i posted this almost a month to the day of the last chapter? depression whomst?

_Approximately two years ago…_

Aziraphale _loved_ him. He almost had to pinch himself. 

A drink, a chat. That’s what he had gone over to have. A chat about what, he hadn’t known. Aziraphale had sounded so incredibly serious on the phone and Crowley’s mind had only drawn the worst conclusions. That they couldn’t be friends anymore, that Aziraphale had seen right through him and loathed what he found. That Aziraphale was dying. 

All right, perhaps the last one was a little dramatic, even for Crowley. But Aziraphale hadn’t given specifics, so it could have been _anything._

Love hadn’t even entered his head. Why would Crowley hope?

The sight of Aziraphale in his shirtsleeves had only turned the butterflies in his stomach to bats, or other frantically flapping things. He had never seen him in anything less than a waistcoat, and here he was, throat bared to the world in the gold of the sunset. Oh, how Crowley wanted to get his mouth on that pale, soft skin. 

Somehow, somehow he’d kept his cool. Mostly. Over the rush of blood in his ears, Crowley had managed to maintain adequate conversation. Even got Aziraphale to get to the point of the whole thing. 

And what a thing it was. 

At first Crowley had felt his fears confirmed. Aziraphale had put his glass down and kept _looking_ at Crowley like he was two seconds away from bursting into tears. Crowley had felt much the same. 

Then it had sunk in. Aziraphale loved him, and it had all started spilling out of him. Words and tears. Aziraphale’s face had turned soft and, oh, his smile. Small and so happy and growing wider by the second, crinkling his eyes. The whole world had fallen away. All that had mattered was the angel in front of him. 

He’d never wanted to leave his arms. The embrace had felt like home.

And the kiss, _wow._ Crowley stumbled up the front step as he recalled it. He hadn’t been kissed in so long, let alone like that. That was what a kiss should be like. Goosebumps had broken out all along his spine, and Crowley had nearly come in his pants when Aziraphale’s thick fingers had tangled in the base of his hair. They were too loved-up and over-eager to have had any sense of finesse. Their teeth had clacked, and the kiss had been messy with their smiles. It had been perfect. 

By the time they had gotten their fill—well, Crowley hadn’t. He didn’t think he would ever get enough. It was like he was drunk with wanting, the sweetest nectar, the choicest fruits. The sun had well set by the time they had finished kissing for the evening. The brights of Aziraphale’s eyes had been the most defined in the low light. They’d been shiny with tears. No doubt Crowley’s face had been much the same. 

Then Crowley had to leave. 

Crowley had done an incredible amount of hard things in his life, but leaving Aziraphale there on the patio to return to his own cold bed, alone, was one of the hardest. But he’d done it, made it across their common and into the front door. He thought all the staff would have left by now, but there Mary was, raising an eyebrow at him from the hallway. 

She was in the middle of shrugging on her coat and tidying her hair when she asked him, “Have a goodnight, sir?” 

Crowley rolled his eyes at her, although that didn’t do much in the darkened foyer. “Yes, thank you,” he replied tightly. “You?” 

“Pleasant enough. See you in the morning.” 

“Mm,” he said and walked up the stairs to his room. 

At the last second, Crowley saved himself from slamming into the closed door of his bedroom. He didn’t even get ready to sleep, just stripped off and fell to the bed. 

~~~~~

Crowley’s warmth against him had not yet dissipated, nor had his scent, however faint above the jasmine. It was intoxicating, tempting. It made Aziraphale want to do all sorts of improper things. 

After a moment, Aziraphale realised he was standing there alone, in the dark, clutching at himself like he was about to unravel. He sighed and took hold of the glasses still on the table. Drunk insects were not something any of the staff should have to deal with. 

Aziraphale managed to get him and the drinks tray inside fairly quietly. It was difficult to finagle the door—it had a habit of creaking when you least needed it. He placed the objects down on the nearest table and began the slow ascent towards his room. Slow because he was still busy daydreaming, and tripping up the stairs would no doubt alert the household to his presence. 

Warlock would be asleep by now. He liked to argue that he was big enough now to stay up late (“I’m not a baby, Azira!”), but he had a busy afternoon at a friend’s place and had conked out soon after returning. 

Mother was a bit of a wild card. She said daft things like needing to get her beauty sleep, then Aziraphale would find her dancing to records at two in the morning. He hoped for now she was in her room at least, at the other end of the corridor from him. 

He rounded the landing, thinking of the beautiful, incredible sounds Crowley had made against him, only to nearly collide with the figure standing there far too still. 

“Mother!” he hissed, still wary of the other occupants of the household. 

She grinned, all Cheshire Cat, in a ridiculously decadent silk robe. Her hair was still tightly curled. His hopes were dashed. 

“Hello, love. Having a good night?” she asked, not moving an inch from where she blocked Aziraphale’s escape route. 

“Quite good, thank you. But incredibly tiring, so I’m just heading to bed.” 

Somehow her eyes sparkled even in the low light.

“Of course. Sleep well, dear,” she said and finally moved so Aziraphale could get past. 

He was nearly at the door of his room when she called out again. 

“Don’t break his heart, Aziraphale.”

His hand froze where it had fallen against the doorknob. Don’t break _his_ heart? She was supposed to be Aziraphale’s mother, not Crowley’s! He unstuck himself and wrenched the door open, closing it not-too-quietly behind him. 

Aziraphale pressed himself the closed back of the door, like a young person just home from a goodnight kiss. That’s basically what he was, except for the young bit. 

He felt too giddy to sleep but went about his night routine anyway. His thoughts kept drifting back again and again to Crowley, and all the possibilities before them. 

His love. 

~~~~~

Aziraphale tossed and turned, kept up by his racing, spinning, tumbling thoughts. He thought perhaps the confession would rid him of some of his fears, but it seemed they had multiplied when he wasn’t paying attention. 

Eventually he fell asleep due to sheer exhaustion, but woke up as early as he ever did. 

The light of the morning eased his concerns a little, bringing him a clarity he desperately needed. He loved Crowley, and Crowley loved him right back. He had to trust it. 

Aziraphale knew he shouldn’t be _too_ over eager, lest he push Crowley away, though the temptation of his bedside telephone was obvious. So, Aziraphale threw himself out of bed and into the day. 

~~~~~

Crowley slept throughout the night and intended to continue on well into the next morning until shrill birds started belting out, all at once, next to his ear. He groaned into his pillow. Whatever time it was, it was too early. 

The noise continued, getting clearer as Crowley woke up to the world. 

It wasn’t birds at all, but the ringing telephone. He groaned some more, already put out by whoever had dared to interrupt his sleep. He had been having such a pleasant dream, too, that had quickly retreated into the haziest of recollections. 

He threw an unseeing hand out and patted along the bed and up the side table in search of the phone. It seemed forever away, and Crowley was far too comfortable to roll over to reach it properly. 

It stopped ringing, anyway, and his room was filled with blessed silence once more. 

Crowley’s hand dropped, and he curled back into himself, already half asleep. 

~~~~~

Aziraphale entertained himself by reviewing his diary and certainly did not spend far too many minutes gazing longingly at the clock as he waited, thank you very much.

None of the events and activities he had promised to attend held any appeal, now. He would much rather spend the time with Crowley. 

Maybe Crowley would agree to accompany Aziraphale to some, as his guest? He seemed to loathe social gatherings more than Aziraphale did, so it would have to take some convincing, but it could be a perfect solution. 

He would have to ease him into the idea, of course. 

But that was for later. Aziraphale wanted to greet his love on the first day of the rest of their lives. Oh, that had such a lovely ring to it. 

It was only a moment before he had dialled the number again, and only another few before Crowley didn’t pick up. 

Oh dear, this was getting a little concerning. Aziraphale hoped Crowley wasn’t _intentionally_ ignoring him. Perhaps something had happened? Unlikely, in the dozen hours they had been parted, but his mind couldn’t help but draw the worst conclusions. 

It was a decent enough hour, too. And if the telephone wasn’t working, there truly was only one solution. 

Aziraphale had to go over there. 

He was loath to overstep this perhaps unspoken boundary. Just because they had made their feelings known did not mean Aziraphale was necessarily entitled to Crowley’s time. But he was worried, and did so very much want to see him. 

Aziraphale crossed the room and selected a pair of shoes, slipping them on as he sat on the edge of his bed. 

It was the only way. 

~~~~~

A few minutes before the second phone call, Crowley had woken up. He moved sluggishly and slowly as he usually did. He sat up and brushed the hair away from his face and mouth, and tried to wake up properly. 

It didn’t really work, without the aid of coffee. 

He groaned under his breath and shuffled out of bed and into the bathroom. Splashing cold water on his face didn’t help much, either. 

Crowley stumbled back into the room and haphazardly pulled on some clothes. He was only going to garden, and the staff were well used to his morning behaviour by now. 

Somewhere in his journey downstairs he had found a pair of sunglasses and shoved them on. Thank Christ, that helped. The smell of fresh coffee greeted him like a love returned home from war, and he inhaled it as he leaned against the dining room table. 

Even Mary knew to stay away at this time, despite her love of teasing. 

Once the large mug was drained, Crowley felt more ready to face the day and left through the back to enter into the garden. 

The sun was thankfully hidden by the back copse of trees, but its warmth still radiated onto Crowley’s skin. He picked up his box of tools from the backstep and wandered over to the garden beds. He needed to do some weeding. 

Unceremoniously, he collapsed to the ground, kneeling, and pulled on his gloves. Crowley always thought best when covered in dirt. And he had so much to think about. 

As the coffee began to work its magic, Crowley was able to put a coherent thought together. Last night. Aziraphale. Kissing. 

It felt unreal in the light of day. Like a fantasy Crowley had constructed in his mind. Aziraphale loved him, and wanted to be with him. He got swept up in it all, the heat between them in the cool night air. 

This morning, though, Crowley began to… well, not worry. He didn’t _worry_ about things. Just thought about them. A lot. For long periods of time. 

How would it work? This relationship, between them? He only had the one pitiful experience to draw from, and Aziraphale had never mentioned anyone in his past. 

And they were so different, too. Aziraphale was fussy and particular and immaculately dressed. Put together. Untouchable. Controlled. 

Crowley was looser, more easygoing. Didn’t really care about what anyone thought of him because no one mattered. No one stuck around long enough to matter. 

But Aziraphale mattered. His smile and his hands and his eyes and his ridiculous, beautiful hair. His laugh and his snark and his kindness. His heart. 

Crowley couldn’t let past experience or current doubt ruin this. He wouldn’t let it. 

Their similarities outweighed their differences. Their love would ease their way. 

There was so much to look forward to. Now that he knew what Aziraphale felt, now that this was possible. Crowley could put his fears to bed and hope. 

A future, by Aziraphale’s side. 

Crowley grinned to himself and pulled at the roots. 

~~~~~

It was only a short walk over in the mid-morning sunshine to Crowley’s place. Aziraphale went to the front door, naturally, which was answered by one of his staff. Mary, the housekeeper, seemed unsurprised at his arrival. 

“He’s out the back, sir, in the garden.” 

“Of course. Thank you,” Aziraphale said, maintaining politeness despite the growing frustration within him. He had begun to think something had _happened_ to Crowley, yet he was simply knee-deep in soil. He could have told the staff to answer the phones, for God’s sake. 

He stalked down the corridor towards the back of the house, a place he was now mostly familiar with, and back into the fresh air. 

It was easy to spot Crowley, his hair a flame among the green landscape. He was on the ground, facing away from Aziraphale. As he moved closer, Aziraphale could hear a faint murmuring, though he couldn’t make out the words. 

As he walked over the small patch of lawn, Crowley stilled and turned. A wide grin was plastered across his face, though it dropped when he caught sight of Aziraphale’s own expression. 

“Angel?” 

“Don’t ‘angel’ me, Crowley! Do you know how worried I’ve been about you all morning? I called and called, and no one answered! Anything could have happened!” 

Crowley frowned. “But nothing did happen.” 

“How was I meant to know that?” 

Crowley stood up and pulled off his gloves. 

“Aziraphale… I’m sorry I worried you, all right? I’ll tell Mary to tell everyone that they can answer my phone—not that anyone besides you would be ringing, anyway,” Crowley muttered, then cleared his throat. “But I really am fine. Slept late, woke up, came to garden. I need to… think.” 

Aziraphale backed away slightly and felt himself deflate. “Oh. My dear, if you’re having regrets about last night, I’m terribly sorry—” 

Crowley stepped closer to Aziraphale and grabbed his hands. “No! No, no, no. No regrets, none of those. Well, maybe that I had to leave you, I mean. Anyway. Just things, y’know. Stuff.” 

“Stuff,” Aziraphale echoed. 

“Yeah. But hey, we didn’t even say good morning.” Crowley took another step, eerily similar to the night before. “Good morning, angel.” His voice had dropped down deeper, more subtle, and Aziraphale felt it reverberate in his chest. 

“Good morning, my dear,” he replied breathlessly. Aziraphale couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at the sunglasses still between them. Crowley quickly whipped them off. Aziraphale glanced from Crowley’s uncovered, beautiful eyes and his lips, which curled into a smirk. 

Suddenly, no distance was between them, and they were pressed together. Aziraphale didn’t know whether he leaned up or if Crowley bent down, but they were kissing. Softly, slowly. Aziraphale all but swooned. 

They separated just as slowly, the grin now back on Crowley’s face. 

“Better?” 

“Much.” For a moment, Aziraphale was distracted by the intimate affection, then remembered part of the reason why he came over in the first place. “There is a lot to discuss, however.” 

Crowley blinked at him. “There is?” 

“Of course. Emotion rarely guarantees logic or good planning. Just because we’re in love with one another—” Crowley flushed at that statement, how lovely. “—does not mean we are on the same page, as it were, in regards to this relationship.” 

“Right.” 

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Don’t look at me like that, darling. I simply mean to be practical. How often we see each other, what we want to call one another, who we tell. That, in particular, is pertinent as, among other things, I did come over here to invite you to dinner. With my family.” 

Crowley was obviously confused. “I love your family.” 

Aziraphale swooned a little. “So you’ll come?” 

“Course. Are we telling them? About, y’know...” He gestured between them. “Us?” 

“I was planning to announce it. It will be us and Mother and Warlock, of course. Father is still… away.” 

“Wouldn’t miss it for anything,” Crowley assured him. 

“Oh, good!” Aziraphale exclaimed in relief. He then sobered up, guilt creeping in. “I am sorry for interrupting you, dear. I know you must have plans and things.” 

Crowley reached out and took hold of his hand. He gave it a gentle squeeze. “S’okay, angel. Always happy to see you.” 

Aziraphale looked down at their linked hands with a soppy smile. How could such simple words put him at ease? 

“And hey. Since you love all your plans and your books and things, maybe you could write a list of the things you want to talk about? So we’re on… the same page.” 

Why hadn’t _he_ thought of that? “Whatever would I do without you? Oh, I could kiss you!” he said before thinking. Crowley gave a coy grin, and Aziraphale leaned in and did so, softly. “Oh, I have so much to do,” he said and started walking away. “I’ll see you at seven tonight, all right? Don’t be late!”

~~~~~ 

Crowley managed to occupy himself for the rest of the day. He pottered around the garden, finally got around to replying to some of the letters he had received about hiring him for events (of various quality), and remembered to eat, even. 

He spent probably far longer than necessary getting ready for dinner. He put on his sharpest black suit, shiniest shoes. In front of the mirror he went from tie, to no tie, then tie again. He did his hair, combing it oh so carefully into place, then ripped off the tie again. 

Crowley checked his watch, and it was already ten to. He quickly bolted downstairs, collected the flowers he had arranged earlier, and began the walk across to Aziraphale’s. 

He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but he was nervous. Despite basically being friends with Margaret already, and despite how often Warlock came over (and if anyone was a good judge of character, it was that kid). He knew they liked him, but a neighbour was different from family. 

Crowley wanted to be family. And he needed to make a good impression. 

Clarence greeted him at the door. Well, greeted as in stood there and inspected him in silence. Crowley did his best not to gulp too audibly. 

It seemed he passed some sort of unspoken test, as he was allowed in a moment after, and led to the dining room. 

Aziraphale waited just outside and lit up when he saw Crowley. They gave each other a quick peck on the lips. 

“All right. They’re already both in there. Gosh, you look dashing. Oh, are these for me?” Aziraphale asked as he inspected the flowers. 

Crowley shook his head. “Nah, they’re for your mum.” 

“Good. Don’t slouch, don’t mention anything rude. Do _not_ criticise anyone without Mother insulting them first. Just, well. Behave.” 

Crowley tried to give him a reassuring smile. “It’s fine, angel. C’mon, I thought you said not to be late?” 

“Humph.” 

Mother and Warlock looked up as the couple entered, hand in hand. Margaret gave a rather pleased grin, and Warlock looked on with wide eyes. 

“Mother, Warlock, I would like to introduce you to Crowley, the... man I am seeing,” Aziraphale announced formally as they stood by the open door. A few moments of inspection felt like a lifetime to Crowley, who did his best not to wince in the limelight. 

Margaret clapped her hands. “Wonderful. Sit down, boys, you have to tell me all about it.” 

Aziraphale unfroze first and all but dragged Crowley with him to the table. Lucky for Crowley, he was sitting opposite Warlock, which took a sliver of the pressure off. The boy kicked him under the table and gave a significant look to the flowers still clutched in Crowley’s hands. 

“Oh! Oh, um, Margaret. I, uh, brought these for you.” 

“Thank you, dear. May I look at them, then?” 

Only then did Crowley realise he hadn’t made any move to pass them over the table. He startled and all but thrust them into her face, and then willed the ground to swallow him up. 

Margaret laughed good-naturedly and took a moment to study them. “Lovely. Thank you.” Just as she made to push back her chair, the butler entered with drinks and appetisers. 

When Clarence’s hands were free, he murmured, “Let me take that for you, ma’am,” and disappeared, no doubt to put the flowers in a vase. 

The room descended into silence as the dining room door was closed. No one seemed to want to be the first to begin. 

“Does that mean you’re my brother now?” Warlock asked innocently. 

A pause as the adults glanced at each other. Crowley really hoped he wasn’t fucking this up. 

“Maybe if I behave myself, hmm?” he asked with an exaggerated wink. When in doubt, his suave persona had never failed him. 

Laughter and Warlock’s giggles filled the room as they all relaxed. The look Aziraphale gave him was one of pure adoration. Maybe everything would be okay. 

~~~~~

That night was the first of many dinners together. Crowley had wrestled his way into Aziraphale’s heart but slid into his family like a duck took to water. It was easy for them to be together there. He entertained Warlock and really listened to him—something all children needed—and flirted brazenly with Mother, much to her amusement and Aziraphale’s embarrassment. No matter what, Crowley’s attention was on Aziraphale. Whether it was an arm along the back of his chair or a small glance, the smile of an inside joke, Aziraphale knew how much he was cared for. 

There were other dates, too, that the pair ventured on. Now that they could both admit that they were, in fact, dates. Somehow they managed to fit things amongst their busy schedules, even if it was sitting together in Crowley’s garden in contented silence. 

Aziraphale’s wish for a lengthy discussion was granted. Crowley grumbled about it for a while but ultimately knew that anything was worth keeping the angel. 

Crowley’s one condition was that it had to be at night, and to have some “liquid courage.” Not enough to become truly intoxicated, but enough to ease his tongue. 

It came out in dribs and drabs: His lonely childhood, his suffering at school. Lucius. That had been the hardest one. Crowley could barely look at Aziraphale, let alone form the words about it. He didn’t want to see a look of pity in those blue eyes. He wouldn’t be able to stand it. 

Somehow, he got through the recollection of his past. Silence filled the room but for the sound of Crowley sniffling. 

Then, in a blink of an eye, Aziraphale was there on the ground in front of him. The alcohol meant Crowley reacted slowly and clumsily as he sat up and attempted to appear more put together. 

Aziraphale clasped his hand in his and looked up with tears in his own eyes. 

“Thank you for sharing all of that with me, love. It must have been hard, and I’m incredibly grateful for your trust.” 

And with that, he pressed a kiss to the back of Crowley’s shaking hand. 

Something inside Crowley broke open, and his soft tears flowed freely, despite his persistent wiping at his face. 

Aziraphale rose from the floor and gently, oh so gently, fit himself atop Crowley’s lap. He cradled his love to his chest and for once did not care a whit about the state of his clothes. 

He rocked them a little, back and forth, as Crowley cried and cried. Crowley clutched at any part of Aziraphale that he could reach. He clung on like a limpet, awfully afraid that Aziraphale would disappear if he were to let go. 

After a while, the tears stopped. Crowley felt sticky and wet and exhausted. Like he was suddenly paper-thin. Fortunately, Aziraphale remained right where he was, and Crowley got that comforting weight on top of him for a while longer. 

Aziraphale shared his own story, too. Bits and pieces. Being so different from the other boys around him. Soft and soft-spoken. Certain people ~~(his father)~~ not liking that. They wanted him to be a “real man”; strong and brave and masculine. 

Adolescence, and the trials that followed. Realising he was attracted to men and only attracted to men. Obviously there was nothing wrong with that, but the circle he was born into _~~(his father)~~_ cared so very much about bloodlines and producing heirs. 

But Aziraphale had his mother. And Wanda, who cared for him, too. Friends who were perhaps not _suited_ for his social position but who loved him better than anyone ever had. 

Aziraphale had had a few loves. He had loved each of them, even if it were in the kind of comfort and friendship one felt from finding a kindred spirit. None were public, and none lasted particularly long. But each had been important and had shaped him all the same. 

But the past while—nearing seven years, at least—Aziraphale had been alone. As he had gotten older, Father had only increased talk of him taking over the family business, and Aziraphale tried to avoid that as much as possible. 

Crowley was not what he had expected, but what a delightful surprise he had been. 

Aziraphale had proceeded to describe the shape of the relationship he wanted. He did so quietly and carefully, still afraid to openly state what he wanted in fear of rejection. 

The hesitation made Crowley feel like he was about to be asked to do all manner of indecent or illegal things. Yet, Aziraphale was most insistent on affection, and Crowley being happy to be seen with him in public.

Crowley’s heart broke all over again. 

“Of course, angel. I’m _honoured_ to be able to touch you, to be with you. I’ll put my hands on you as much as you like.” 

Aziraphale blushed deeper at that. 

“Well, I, ah, thank you, dear. But speaking of…” He averted his gaze. 

Crowley rubbed his thumb over Aziraphale’s soft hand. How was he so soft?

“Yes?”

“I know you’re quite the modern man, as it were, but as we are putting everything on the table, so to speak, I thought it would be best to tell you, well. I don’t believe I’m ready for anything… more intimate.”

“Wha?” 

“You know. Making love.”

Crowley choked on air. “ _Wow._ Hnngh, Aziraphale, I, uh, may be _modern,_ but I can assure you that is the furthest thing from my mind.”

“Oh.” Somehow Aziraphale appeared to shrink as he curled in on himself, away from Crowley. “Of course. How presumptuous of me.”

“No, hey, Aziraphale, listen—” Crowley sat up more to try and face Aziraphale. “I really keep putting my foot in it, huh?” 

Aziraphale still wouldn’t look at him. 

“Aziraphale, angel, sweetheart, you are _so_ attractive. A truly ridiculous amount. Why do you think I call you ‘angel,’ hmm?”

He shrugged glumly. 

“But I’m really not as… suave, or whatever, as you think I am. I only had that one disaster of a relationship and, well...” Crowley huffed out a breath. “The touch that you’ve spoken of, that you need, is something I… crave. All the time. I told you about my life, my stuff. The kindness you’ve shown me…” The tears he had thought were over threatened to make a reappearance. 

Strong hands found Crowley’s face. Aziraphale gave him a watery smile. 

“Perhaps we shall wait until we’re both ready? If we’re ready?” 

Crowley wiped at his eyes and nodded. 

“Yeah, sounds good,” Crowley said with a watery voice. There was a pause as he stroked Aziraphale’s hand. “I am, though, um, interested. In that. You’re the only person I’ve ever felt like this for.”

Aziraphale’s expression turned incredibly fond. “Sweet thing.” He moved his hand to press a kiss to Crowley’s pink, tear-stained cheek. “Maybe we should discuss safer topics, now?” 

“Mm,” Crowley agreed, eyes half-closed with pleasure. 


	12. A Rare Night For Romancing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> twelve chapters in less than twelve months is what i call SUCCESS and i will not listen to anyone who tries to tell me otherwise. all i do is win
> 
> also I know this plot development may seem a little fast (haha) but in case you've forgotten, the movie gives basically no backstory and i am making this all up from my very tired mind. and I need to get things moving along!
> 
> cw alcohol, steamy makeouts, pregnancy mention, unsupportive/manipulative friendships, misogyny mention, death mentions
> 
> beta'd by the wondrous ZehWulf

_Approximately two years ago..._

Crowley pulled away from Aziraphale, panting with breathlessness after their extended kiss. He looked blissful, and Aziraphale was overjoyed that he was the one responsible for the expression on his beloved’s face. Crowley grinned widely back at him and held up his hand to the light. The ring on his left hand shone beautifully.

“Engaged! Me!” Crowley laughed and threw his arms around Aziraphale once more.

Aziraphale chuckled good naturedly against him and held his fiancé close.

Crowley seemed like a ball of energy and soon pulled away again. “God, angel, for a few moments there I had no idea what you were about to say. But engaged! You’re going to be my husband!” Crowley seemed to realise what he said and repeated the words with awe. “You’re going to be my _husband._ ”

Aziraphale felt himself tearing up again, although he wasn’t quite sure he had stopped crying since he had knelt down.

“And you will be mine.”

The look Crowley gave him could only be described as soppy, and he leaned in for another, much quicker kiss.

“I can’t wait to tell everyone. I know you said getting married will make us the happiest men in the world, but I think if I become any happier than right now I might explode.”

The thought of informing others about their engagement stung Aziraphale a little. He hadn’t been sure if Crowley would say yes, and he had put it out of his mind somewhat. Progressive artist type that he was, Aziraphale had thought Crowley might be against the institution altogether. He tried to keep the smile on his face.

“What’s that look for, angel?” Crowley asked as he tangled their hands together. “Not changing your mind already?” he tried to joke, but it fell flat in the afternoon air.

“No, no, of course not, don’t even suggest it! It’s only, as you said, telling people. With my position, with _our_ positions, it is going to be a little… precarious.”

Crowley frowned. “Can’t we just tell the people we want to? Who cares about the rest?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “I wish it were that easy, my dear, I really do.” He squeezed Crowley’s hand for emphasis. “But I do think it best if we decide what information we’re going to share. An announcement in the paper is traditional.”

“Okay. Whatever you think is best, Aziraphale, I don’t mind. It’s not as if I have loads of people to tell anyway.”

Aziraphale reached out and tucked a strand of Crowley’s hair behind his ear. “Thank you. I do have something drafted, but I can get it from the house if you’d like to read it over?”

Crowley shook his head and tucked himself against Aziraphale’s side. “I trust you.”

Butterflies fluttered inside Aziraphale. Such a simple phrase, and yet it meant so much. He pulled Crowley closer and basked in the sunlight of the garden.

“But I do have a request,” Crowley said after a few moments.

“Of course. Anything, darling. Your wish is my command.”

“Careful, there. Offering that to a man is dangerous.”

“I trust _you_ , Crowley,” Aziraphale replied. “I know you wouldn’t ask me for anything I couldn’t give.”

“In that case, I want to go out and celebrate. Even if the announcement doesn’t go out until, I dunno, when can you get it to the paper? I still want to celebrate our _engagement_ with my _fiancé._ ”

Aziraphale hummed. “I’m sure I could ring the paper and get it in for tomorrow morning, if you’re willing to wait that long.”

Crowley sat up and looked at him. “Of course I can wait. I’d wait six thousand years for you, angel. As long as it takes.” His gaze swept over the garden. “To be _honest,_ I thought I was the one who would end up doing the proposing, one day. Thought you would want a longer courtship, or something. I do fancy the idea of you wearing my ring, after all.”

“That’s very sweet of you, darling. You can propose to me next time, how about that?”

“Next time?” Crowley looked at him with that smirk and raised eyebrow thing he did that never failed to make Aziraphale feel weak.

“Well, if you really wish to, we can prolong the engagement until I’m lured into a false sense of security. And then _you_ can spring the question on _me,_ ” he argued.

Crowley snorted. “I’ll keep that in mind. But back to the topic at hand, what would you say if I took you out dancing?”

Aziraphale gave a pleased wiggle at the idea. “I would say yes.”

“Good, it’s settled, then. I will take you, my _fiancé,_ out dancing tonight and I—” Crowley inched closer. “—will show you a very good time indeed.”

Aziraphale moved closer in turn. “Is that a promise?”

“Oh, angel.” Crowley changed course at the last second and moved to whisper in his ear. “It’s a guarantee.”

Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered shut, and he let out a soft moan. No one had ever made him feel like this before.

He felt Crowley’s warmth fade as he pulled away, and Aziraphale opened his eyes.

“You look far too enticing like that, angel. And I know you have things to do and that you’re expected for dinner.”

Although he was pleased with the thoughtfulness, Aziraphale couldn’t help but be slightly disappointed that Crowley was no longer touching him.

“Tonight, then?”

Crowley gave him a heated glance, one that held the promise of more. “Tonight.”

Aziraphale swallowed around the lump in his throat and crossed his legs. His trousers were beginning to feel slightly too tight. “I shall, ah, telephone the newspaper with the announcement, and meet you after dinner?”

“It’s a date.”

~~~~~

Aziraphale giggled as Crowley held the door of the café open for him. It wasn’t a place Aziraphale had been before. In all honesty, he hadn’t been to anywhere in the area before. It wasn’t somewhere Father would approve of, certainly. But those thoughts flew from Aziraphale’s mind as Crowley placed a warm arm around him to steer him towards the back corner of the room.

Aziraphale wasn’t _quite_ drunk, yet, but he was grateful for the assistance all the same. He would wager that he was pleasantly intoxicated, not just from the drinks in the club but on love itself. His fiancé deposited him on one side of a large booth, and Crowley slipped into the bench opposite. Aziraphale found himself pouting at the distance, which Crowley only chuckled at.

“We have to remain at least a bit decent, angel. Besides, I want to look at you after being in that dark room, can you grant me that?”

“Of course,” Aziraphale eagerly agreed and bent his head to examine the menu. Gosh, it must have been hours since he had dinner; he felt famished.

He became distracted imagining the dishes on offer until a waitress interrupted them. Crowley quickly ordered a coffee and the cake of the day. Aziraphale took a beat but gave into his cravings and requested a plate of chips.

Now that was taken care of, Aziraphale was free to stare at Crowley all that he liked. “You don’t even like cake, dear,” Aziraphale said, forehead crinkled.

Crowley reached out across the table and took his hand in his. “Yeah, well. You do, and I figured it was a good deal. I can send it back if you want.”

“No, no, no. You are just the sweetest thing, aren’t you? Sweet… like cake, ha!”

Crowley laughed along with him. “Glad all that reading has paid off.”

The drinks were deposited, and the waitress departed once again.

Aziraphale poured himself a drink. Goodness, he really was thirsty now. He went to take a large sip but was held back by Crowley.

“I propose a toast,” Crowley said, mug held aloft.

Aziraphale frowned. “We don’t have champagne.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “I’m improvising, just go along with it. A toast,” he began again. “To my fiancé, Aziraphale Lord, an angel who walks the earth and has thrown in his lot with me for the foreseeable future.”

Well, that wouldn’t do at all! “I propose a counter toast—”

“ _Counter_ toast?”

“To _my_ fiancé, Crowley Haven, who is not only as handsome as he is talented—”

“Come on!”

“ _But_ the loveliest person I have ever met, and I am the luckiest person in the world because I get to marry him.”

Crowley’s face had turned more pink throughout Aziraphale’s little speech. “To us, then,” he conceded.

“To us.”

They clinked the coffee mug and water glass together and drank, only then realising the waitress was stood there with their food.

She cleared her throat awkwardly. “Your meal,” she said and disappeared.

Aziraphale had the decency to feel chastised while Crowley simply looked pleased.

Aziraphale couldn’t help the twitch of his lip as Crowley faced him with an amused expression. He simply couldn’t hold it together and started laughing, at first out of slight embarrassment, and then Crowley joined in, and Azirapphale’s laughter became one of pure joy.

It took a few minutes for the couple to calm down, and Aziraphale found himself dabbing at his damp eyes with a handkerchief.

“Glad you put the notice in the paper, angel, since I don’t think we’d do well at keeping this a secret.”

“You’re quite right, dear,” Aziraphale agreed.

“Do you have plans of telling people? I mean, your family and the staff, obviously, but…”

“Yes?”

“Well. You’ve mentioned before that you have friends, but I’ve not seen hide nor hair of them, so I don’t really know.”

Aziraphale bristled and put down the chip that was halfway to his mouth. “Of course I have plans to tell them about our engagement! And for you to meet them,” he tacked on. “One group—my society friends and my cousin Michael—well... they’re not exactly the… friendliest sort, and I figured it would be best to wait until we were a little more established before I made introductions.”

“As long as it’s before the wedding.”

“Of course! They’re all quite busy, which is why I don’t see them as much as they would probably wish, but I did phone Michael today, and we should be having lunch next week.”

“Great, when is it?”

Aziraphale paused again. “My dear, please don’t think this is about you, but I _do_ think it best if I break the news to them first. Well, it’s going out in the paper, of course, but I haven’t seen them all since we had just got together. They’ll have a million questions, many of them impolite, and I’d really rather save you from that mess.”

Crowley’s brow became furrowed. “You mentioned that being one group, what’s the other?”

“Oh, my other friends!” Aziraphale eagerly followed the change in topic. “Yes, I met some of them when I was in university—not _at_ university, but in the town nearby. Fortunately, there was a little get-together planned for tomorrow, so I’ll be seeing them then.”

“And I can come to that one, right?”

Aziraphale glanced away, not wanting to meet Crowley’s eyes.

“Angel…”

“I simply feel that it would be better for me to gauge their reactions before I introduce you. So we know our approach,” he reasoned.

“Approach? Angel, these people are your friends, not the press. Won’t they be happy for you?”

Aziraphale thought of his relationship with his cousin and their wider group of friends. Their focus on money and heirs, good breeding and investments. He truly didn’t know if they would be happy for him, and he would rather spare Crowley the pain of it all. The joy Aziraphale had been feeling was washed away with renewed sadness at the reminder of his position.

“Hey, I’m sorry.” Crowley’s hand reached out to touch his own. Aziraphale stared down at it. “I shouldn’t be so harsh. Of course you know your friends better than I do. I’m just… really excited and want to show you off, show _us_ off, to the whole world. If you need some time to ensure that they get the best impression of me, okay. I’ll wait.”

Aziraphale looked up and offered him a small smile. “Thank you.”

“What are fiancés for? C’mon, eat your chips. They’ll get cold otherwise.”

Aziraphale bit into one of the chips and was delighted at the crunchy, savoury food. They tasted like heaven, as worn out and intoxicated as he was. He couldn’t help the noise of satisfaction that escaped his mouth as he continued eating.

Opposite him, Crowley choked on his coffee.

“Are you all right dear?”

Crowley coughed a few times then drank down a large portion of his water. “Yeah, yeah of course. The coffee is just, um, bitter, after we had all those sugary cocktails.”

Crowley took a sip of his coffee again. Aziraphale, in turn, chewed on some more chips. The salty-savoury-oily goodness coated his mouth deliciously. He hummed at the sensation and closed his eyes as he wiggled in delight.

The closure of his eyes meant he didn't see his effect on Crowley.

After that mouthful, Aziraphale opened his eyes and focused on the remaining chips. He had eaten a lot of good food over the years, as well as a lot of Good Food, but nothing had been quite as satisfying as this meal was.

Aziraphake knew he was being slightly rude to his dining companion, but there were more priorities than making conversation at this time.

When the plate was half empty and his stomach felt a lot better and slowed, he looked up to see Crowley.

His face was flushed, more flushed than it had been when they were drinking and dancing. Perhaps the coffee was too warm?

"Are you all right, Crowley? You're looking awfully red. You could've waited until your drink cooled."

Crowley shook his head. "'S'not the coffee, angel."

"Then whatever is it?"

"Uhhhh. Your, uh, noises. When you're eating," he said tightly.

"Oh." Suddenly self-conscious, Aziraphale sat back in his seat. He hadn't realised how… loud he had been. "My apologies." He looked down at his lap and pressed his hands together. "I'm sorry for making you uncomfortable."

Crowley cursed under his breath and slid around the booth to sit next to him. " _Angel,"_ he sighed. "It's not that I'm uncomfortable, it's…"

Aziraphale looked up at his fiancé, now pressed against him. Crowley huffed out a breath and glanced down to his own lap, then back up at Aziraphale. He repeated the action when Aziraphale didn't follow along.

Aziraphale caught on and looked down.

"Oh!" he said in surprise. " _Oh,_ " he repeated as the implication sunk in. "Well."

Crowley scratched at the back of his neck. "Yeah."

Aziraphale wiggled closer, and Crowley turned to face him. He wasn't sure which of them moved first, but they were soon kissing.

Aziraphale threw himself into the kiss. He had been so distracted planning the proposal that he had worried anything more than a light peck would result in him blurting out the question before it was time. It had only been a week, but that length of time was clearly far, far too long without properly kissing Crowley.

Soon, Crowley’s legs were thrown across Aziraphale’s lap as they tried to get closer to one another. The angle was awkward but allowed Aziraphale’s hands to slip down and squeeze Crowley’s arse. Crowley made a surprised noise at that, and his hips jolted.

After a few minutes, Aziraphale got uncomfortable with the angle and encouraged Crowley to slip his leg over and around him to end up properly in his lap.

It wasn’t particularly seamless, and the kissing stopped long enough for Aziraphale to see how red Crowley’s face had become.

“Is this all right?” he murmured, worried that he had made his fiancé uncomfortable.

Crowley simply crashed their lips together once more.

In this position, Aziraphale was well aware of the predicament they were both in. Not that the tight trousers Crowley favoured anyway left a lot to the imagination, but looking was far different than feeling their hard lengths pressed together.

Aziraphale’s hands came to grip Crowley’s hips, absentmindedly concerned that if the man in his lap moved _too_ enthusiastically, that this might come to a sticky end.

They continued kissing, Aziraphale’s tongue mapping the inside of Crowley’s mouth and rubbing circles with his thumbs into his hips. Crowley opened up willingingly, his red hair now loose and curtain-like around their close faces. His arms were thrown around Aziraphale’s shoulders, trapping him oh-so comfortably. It was several long minutes before the pair stopped, both panting and in need of breath.

Crowley blinked down at Aziraphale, face flushed and lips swollen. Aziraphale felt himself twitch at the image. Crowley glanced down and seemingly made a decision, climbing off of him ungracefully and collapsing next to him in the booth.

Aziraphale closed his eyes and attempted to gather himself.

After a few moments, Crowley spoke.

"Eat your chips, angel," Crowley said and pushed the plate closer to him.

Aziraphale opened his eyes and considered it for a moment. "I think I might start on my cake, actually."

He fixed Crowley with a look and pulled the dessert closer. Aziraphale took a sliver out of the tip of the slice with his fork and raised it to his lips. Crowley seemed transfixed, mouth parted, as he watched on.

Aziraphale slid the cake off the fork and closed his eyes as the sweet substance melted on his tongue. He dug in for another bite.

Crowley moved forward, slowly, eventually coming to kiss Aziraphale’s neck. Aziraphale tilted his head to grant him better access.

And so they went on, Aziraphale eating the cake, noises naturally escaping him. Crowley at first lightly kissed at the pale skin but soon started sucking.

Aziraphale felt his fading erection return. Thank goodness for their almost private table.

Crowley’s hand was like a brand on his thigh. So hot through his trousers, yet not quite where he needed in most.

The cake disappeared, and Aziraphale dropped his fork with a clatter as Crowley continued his ministrations. Then, somehow worse and better, the hand crept a little closer as Crowley began to rub Aziraphale’s leg.

Then, Aziraphale truly remembered where they were.

"Ah, dear—" Crowley's teeth lightly grazed his jaw. " _Crowley,"_ he tried again. "Stop!"

Crowley pulled away.

Aziraphale panted, suddenly breathless. "Thank you."

Crowley squirmed in his seat, and Aziraphale had to look away. "Everything okay?"

"Quite. It was only, ah, too good, one might say. Particularly for the setting."

Crowley's eyes darted down to Aziraphale's crotch; he licked his lips. "Indeed."

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and felt his face flush further. He took a sip of water in lieu of an audible response.

"Shall we cool off and get out of here, then?" Crowley asked, one finger running down the back of Aziraphale's neck.

"I can't very well cool off when you're doing _that._ Get back over there, you foul fiend."

Crowley snorted but slipped around the booth all the same.

It was several minutes before the pair calmed down enough to pay the bill and leave.

"Lift home, then?"

"Could we park at yours, actually?" Aziraphale requested with a glint in his eye, feeling rather bold.

Crowley audibly swallowed and nodded enthusiastically.

It appeared their night was just beginning.

~~~~~

Aziraphale fiddled with his clothing as the car moved further and further north. He was worried about seeing this group of friends. He was nervous to tell them about the engagement, of course, but he was concerned about the catch-up in general. Aziraphale had to admit he had become a little… preoccupied with his infatuation. He hadn't been the most… _engaged_ friend over the past year or so. They were his dear friends, and he knew it would end up all right, but he still felt some lingering guilt.

It seemed he had been so distracted that he missed Jack pulling up to the bookshop. At least he was polite enough not to mention Aziraphale’s current state of airheadedness.

“Thank you, Jack,” Aziraphale said as he climbed out of the opened door. “I’ll see you in a couple of hours, all right?”

“Of course, sir.”

Aziraphale tugged on his jacket, buttoning it up as he made his way to the entrance. The sign said it was closed, but he knew that to be a lie. The bell above the door gave him away as he entered and picked his way through the stacks.

“Could it be…? It is, our famed celebrity has graced us with his presence at long last!” crooned the dark-skinned man hidden around a corner.

“Hello, Oliver,” Aziraphale cooly replied.

Oliver put down the glass he had been holding and approached. “Now, that simply won’t do.”

He brought Aziraphale closer and planted a wet kiss on his cheek. Aziraphale tried to appear displeased, but as he was wrapped in the warm embrace he couldn’t help but cling to his friend even after the polite length of time had passed. He had missed this.

Oliver stepped back and steered him over to the collection of seats that held the rest of their companions.

"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes?" June asked, also kissing Aziraphale’s cheek. "How are you, love?"

"Good, darling, thank you."

"Aziraphale!" Sunny beamed, true to her name, next to her wife on the sofa.

Quincy greeted him with a wave from their chair.

Oliver pressed a glass of wine into Aziraphale's hand as he found his own chair. He frowned at it momentarily then thought better of it.

"What are you, pregnant?" Oliver snorted.

Aziraphale stiffened despite the cushy seat. "I'm engaged," he blurted out instead of coming up with another response.

Oliver looked momentarily shocked, which was a rarity for him, and turned to the rest of the room.

"Well. I thought we'd have to do a lot more wheedling before you'd come out with it." He finally sat down opposite Aziraphale.

Aziraphale drained a good half of his glass.

Sunny all but squealed at the news, and the others joined in cheering. Soon he was being bombarded by enthusiastic questions on all sides.

It was then Aziraphale realised he had been bracing for the worst. But these were his _friends._ They loved him. Even with the noise of enquiries, it didn’t feel like they were trying to cut to the core of him as so many did. He felt… safe.

How had he forgotten?

Quincy made themself heard above the noise and instructed them all to ask one at a time, which was much more sensible.

"Who proposed?" Sunny eagerly questioned.

"I did, actually. I planned a picnic in the back courtyard. Mother had given me the ring a while back. It was a beautiful day."

"How good is he in bed?" Oliver asked, leaning forward in his chair.

"Oliver!"

"What?” He shrugged. “It's a fair enough question. We all know what artists are like."

"And how are your drawing classes going?" June asked him with a raised eyebrow. Oliver simply winked back.

Quincy rolled their eyes at the theatrics. "Are you going to have a ring, then? You aren't wearing one."

“I wanted to surprise Crowley so much that it slipped my mind.” Aziraphale chuckled slightly. It was a bit strange that he didn’t have one, but buying one for himself felt… stranger. “He said he has a plan, so you’ll have to wait and see.”

Sunny thankfully took the attention off of his bare finger. "When are we going to meet this hot flower guy, anyway?"

Aziraphale cleared his throat and smiled. "I wanted to tell you all first. Let you get your potentially uncouth questions before the press hounds or you are set upon my unsuspecting fiancé."

"Aw, you do love us," Oliver crooned.

Aziraphale's vision blurred with the sentiment. "I do, actually. Very much."

Oliver’s sarcastic awing was replaced by genuine remarks from all around Aziraphale as he fished out his handkerchief. These were the people who had seen him through many a tough time. Only then did Aziraphale realise how much he had withdrawn from them.

“Have you set a date, Aziraphale?” Quincy asked once the moment had passed.

Aziraphale blinked. He hadn't even considered that. "Not yet."

"Ooh, well, spring is always lovely, of course,” Sunny said. “It depends on the venue and what you want for the ceremony."

"And reception,” June added. “We were so lucky getting the hall like we did. And the catering! God, I can still taste it now." She smacked her lips and sighed blissfully.

Sunny continued: "But most important are your outfits!"

"I would argue having an open bar is more important than what you're wearing,” Quincy interjected.

Oliver snorted. "At least for us it is."

Everyone laughed at that. The couple continued on.

"But Aziraphale, I'm sure it will be perfect, knowing you and your organisation."

"Definitely. But, if you need any advice or opinions—"

"We certainly have plenty of those."

"—Let us know. Although we might not be on the same level as _Aziraphale Lord and Crowley Haven."_

"The posh bastards that you are, I cannot wait to see what happens at this,” Oliver interrupted. “‘Wedding of the century’—can I put a bet on when the papers will start running that headline?"

"No gambling on Aziraphale’s life. We established that rule like five years ago," Quincy reminded him.

Oliver stuck his tongue out at them. "You’re no fun at all."

"Your wedding was lovely, my dears. I think Crowley and I are planning to just enjoy being engaged for the moment,” Aziraphale said, hoping to steer the conversation away from his impending nuptials.

"I bet you are."

Aziraphale's face flushed further as he thought back to the night of their engagement. "Perhaps that's enough about me for now. How are things with you all?"

~~~~~

Aziraphale was the first one to arrive. He thought it best to be prepared and to have that advantage, at least.

It's not that he didn't like Michael or their wider group of friends. He was just very different from them. Always had been, really. Where they all enjoyed digging into the people in their social circles, picking apart their looks and lives, Aziraphale preferred a much milder flavour of gossip. He was also the only one who worked purely in philanthropy. The others were adjacent in business or law.

Aziraphale wouldn't describe them as _cold,_ necessarily. It was why his father had always called him soft, after all. He was more obvious with his caring, he supposed. He knew they all cared. In their own ways.

At least the food was good. That was a benefit of being of his class: very expensive, very delicious food. Even if he had to endure not-so-pleasant conversation whilst eating it.

They all approached the table at once, no doubt meeting outside and waiting to walk in together: Michael, Uriel, and Harriet. All sharply dressed, not a hair out of place. All catching the eyes of many of the other restaurant patrons. Aziraphale felt like he was being circled by sharks.

He stood up and greeted them one by one as their chairs were pulled out for them. It was for propriety rather than genuine affection. They all knew the roles they had to perform.

Once initial drink orders were settled and the waiter departed, focus returned to Aziraphale.

“So, Azi, something to tell us, then?” Michael asked first, her voice sickly sweet.

“Mm, something about your relationship with that gauche artist?” Harriet added.

“His name is Crowley,” Aziraphale said harshly, then took a breath. “Yes. As you are clearly aware, we are now engaged. To one another.”

“Well, Aziraphale, I thought the newspaper might have been embellishing, but when you organised this little… get-together, I couldn’t help but worry,” said Uriel.

Michael adjusted the sitting of her bracelet. “Indeed. An artist, Azi, truly? Whatever does your father think?”

Aziraphale took a thankful sip of wine from the glass that had just arrived. “I know I’ve asked you to call me Aziraphale, cousin. And I don’t believe it matters, seeing as I am a grown man.”

Harriet tsked. “You can’t actually believe that. With how we’ve been brought up.”

“You know how important family is, Azi—” He glared slightly. “—Aziraphale,” Michael corrected mulishly.

“So, I suppose a ‘congratulations’ is out of the question, then?” Aziraphale mentally kicked himself. Why did he always end up on the defensive?

“We only worry, you know. We hardly hear from you for months, and then suddenly you’re engaged! How can we be sure that you’ve thought this through?”

“Thought what through? Marrying a man I love?”

“There’s more than that to it and you know it. The family, the business, your image, the issue of heirs…”

“Michael, I truly don’t want to have this conversation with you again.”

Their stare off was interrupted by another waiter, asking for their orders.

Fortunately, Aziraphale had had enough time alone to study the menu, and he was granted a few moments of blissful silence as the women looked over their own. He was already regretting the whole meeting. Why had he even bothered, if he was only going to be criticised?

The conversation resumed once the waiter disappeared.

“Why can’t I simply be happy? I am happy, for the record, not that you appear to care about that in the slightest.”

“Don’t you dare put words into my mouth, Aziraphale Lord. Of course we care if you’re happy. We just worry about you. And the… strain, of your position.”

Aziraphale felt a little chastised. He had grown so used to being with Crowley and being around Crowley that societal pressures seemingly faded into the background. But unless he formally cut ties himself or refuted his position entirely, those expectations would always be there. He knew that.

And with it came keeping the peace amongst this particular group, as loathsome as that may be. It would save him a much greater headache in the long run.

“I’m sorry. All of you. I know that you are looking out for me and I do appreciate it.” He attempted to acknowledge each of them with a genuine smile. “I suppose I am still in the bliss of the engagement, that all of that is not something I wish to consider quite yet.” His gaze fell and he fiddled with the napkin.

“Oh, Azi, you’re forgiven of course,” Michael said across from him.

“We can hardly blame you, so clear in the throes of passion that you are.”

“Quite,” Uriel agreed. “The wedding must be soon, then, with how… eager you are to get married, yes?”

“We haven’t settled on a date.” He forced himself to remain upright, rather than curl in on himself like he wanted to.

“But surely you’ll aim for spring? It’s traditional, after all,” Harriet pointed out.

Aziraphale attempted to deflect. “It’s likely, certainly.”

“Have you got someone in mind? I know how much you love to plan, Aziraphale, but obviously I can’t deny Crowley’s… fame, at the moment, and it’s sure to be the wedding of the season. Do you need Therese’s number?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to reply, but Michael spoke again as she extracted something from her purse.

“You’re _so_ right, Uriel. Let me see here.” She unfolded what appeared to be a newspaper cutting, and Aziraphale felt his face grow more flushed. “Oh, yes, ahem...” Michael cleared her throat unnecessarily.

“‘ _Haven’s Lord - Dashing Devil Corrupts a Society Angel?’_ was what they went with, was it?” She raised an eyebrow at him above the paper.

“As much as I may wish to, I cannot control what those scoundrels put to print, and you know that.” Aziraphale sounded harsh, even to his own ears.

The ladies exchanged a look with one another.

“We’re only trying to be interested, Aziraphale,” chided Harriet. “Do you think Crowley will be responsible for the decorations?”

That thought hadn’t even crossed Aziraphale’s mind. It _would_ be lovely to have Crowley decorate, if planning a wedding didn’t overwhelm them too much. He had done such a nice job of it at the housewarming all those months ago…

Aziraphale’s daydreaming was momentarily interrupted by the delivery of their appetisers.

Even as they dug into their meals, his dining companions peppered in question after question into the conversation. Where will they have it? _(The house would be nice, of course, but obviously it depends on the number of guests… What_ are _Crowley’s family like, you haven’t mentioned?_ ) Who will cater? Where will he get his suit? _(I know you have your favourites but perhaps something a_ little _more fashionable, Aziraphale? More in line with your fiancé’s… tastes?)_

The unknowns made Aziraphale worry more than he already was, and by the time dessert was offered he felt more than a little overwhelmed, despite the fact that this was meant to be a celebration of his engagement.

And although he had not wanted him to come, Aziraphale wished Crowley were by his side.

~~~~~

It was Crowley's idea to visit the art museum together. He had suggested it for a date, seeing as they both loved art but had quite different tastes. Aziraphale had been delighted by the notion and was thrilled to walk through the impressive rooms with his fiancé on his arm.

It was also an opportunity to put some of the wedding stress out of his mind. Not that they had truly discussed it outright as of yet. Crowley seemed pleased they could tell people now and that had been it. He had asked about how Aziraphale’s different friends had taken it, and Aziraphale had done his best to dance around the question. He didn't think it would go well if both of them were worried about the planning and the organising and the humongous task before them. Aziraphale didn't even need to worry, per se. Crowley could want to get married in five years, rather than the usual one.

Aziraphale was determined to put that all out of his mind. He was going to enjoy the art and being with Crowley and hopefully a nice lunch afterwards. They were young and in love. He should be enjoying this.

Fortunately, it was early enough in the day that the museum wasn’t too crowded yet, and soon enough they had purchased their tickets.

“Where would you like to go first, angel?” Crowley asked as they stared at the large directional sign on the wall.

“Shall we go chronologically? There’s not any piece in particular that I would like to see, but I do want to visit the Renaissance collection.”

“Of course.”

Crowley spun them around by their linked arms and they made their way down the corridor.

~~~~~

“Isn’t she lovely? The glow of the light is just…” There weren’t quite words for how the painting made him feel.

“Mm. I do always feel a bit creepy, y’know, with all these naked women around. Can’t help but think how they must’ve been treated.”

A pang of guilt hit him in the stomach. “They’re all deceased, anyway,” Aziraphale added bitterly.

“Sorry, angel,” Crowley apologised as he threaded their arms back together. “Didn’t mean to bring down the mood. C’mon, what about this one, here? Don’t you go in for the biblical stuff?”

Aziraphale followed Crowley over to a large scene depicting a scantily clad man tied up. “In a sense. Although, I hardly think St. Sebastian is a great example of Biblical artwork. You do know most saints came _after_ the New Testament?”

“Sure, sure. But on the other hand, a hot, shirtless guy being stabbed to death definitely reminds me of Catholic school.”

Aziraphale blinked. “You were raised Catholic?”

“Ehhh. To borrow the words of a beautiful man, _in a sense.”_

Aziraphale felt his face flush, and he quickly moved on to the next work, no longer comfortable standing in front of the arguably erotic image. He stared at the framed image but his mind was far away.

What did Crowley mean, _in a sense?_ He hadn’t mentioned it when he told him of his childhood that night some months ago. Understandably, he hadn’t said much on the matter, but Aziraphale still worried. Weren’t they meant to tell each other everything?

It also added concern about the wedding. Aziraphale couldn’t be said to be the most devout, but he still wanted a church wedding. Perhaps it was for the ceremony of it all that a courthouse wouldn’t grant. But, if Crowley would be uncomfortable with that…

“Angel?”

Aziraphale turned to find Crowley staring at him. “Sorry, my dear, what were you saying?”

“I asked if you wanted to move to the next room.”

Then Aziraphale noticed the corridor leading them on to the collection on the other side. “Of course.”

Crowley slipped his hand into Aziraphale’s as they walked along, which boosted his confidence a little. They were in this together. Aziraphale had to remember that.

~~~~~

“Now this is what I’m talking about. French Impressionists. I know I’m meant to be loyal to the crown, but by god have we produced a lot of dull art over the years.”

“If you’re talking about portraiture, I’ll have to disagree. Isn’t the fact that we can know what someone looks like, long before the invention of the camera, and have that image today remarkable? They inform us a lot about history, too, and, well...” Aziraphale realised he had been working himself up into a rant. “I’ve always found them… comforting, I suppose.”

“Comforting, angel?”

Aziraphale nodded and glanced back at the wall they were stood in front of. “Yes. Especially when I was younger and I could visit the gallery more frequently. When I had less obligations. I liked to imagine that they were my friends,” he finished softly.

He looked into the eyes of the young woman on the wall. She seemed so lifelike yet so still, frozen in time as she was. Aziraphale turned back to Crowley.

“You probably think me quite silly. Come, lets see your Impressionists, yes?” He tried to lighten up with a change of topic.

“Angel…”

But Aziraphale was already off, striding towards the other end of the room. He didn’t want to think about that. His lonely childhood. How different he and Crowley were. This was meant to be fun, and he needed to put all of that out of his mind.

“Oh, Crowley, this looks like something of yours!”

“That’s very flattering of you to say.”

Aziraphale nodded. “I mean it. I can see the inspiration quite clearly.”

“Yeah, well. I’ve always had a soft spot for Monet. He was one of the first artists that made me think I could actually do it. His work was so different to everything else I was used to, at school or at home.”

Aziraphale squeezed Crowley's hand at the admission. He wished they could escape into the painting. It was calm. Peaceful. A private garden with no one else around and no worries.

Crowley tugged him further on and started discussing the composition of the next painting. Aziraphale tried to follow, he really did, but he became caught up in Crowley's passion instead. It made him light up, and Aziraphale was transfixed.

~~~~~

It was decided that a walk in the park was much needed after a very delicious lunch. Aziraphale insisted on purchasing lettuce to feed the ducks, and so they found themselves standing by the pond.

"I never thought I would get married, you know," Crowley announced as he threw a handful into the water.

Aziraphale startled and turned to look at him. "What?"

"Just been thinking about it with the engagement. 'S funny, is all. It was kind of a vague inevitability, but then everything with Lucius…" He trailed off and threw more lettuce at the crowd of ducks that had gathered.

"You didn't think it would be possible?"

He shot a crooked grin towards Aziraphale. "Sort of. More like I swore off love altogether."

" _Darling_ ,” Aziraphale lamented. Imagining Crowley not being loved nearly broke his heart in two.

Crowley waved him off. "It's fine. I just… I don't know anything about this. I wasn't the kind of kid who planned their wedding before they had even kissed someone. Haven't been close to anyone who had to organise a do like this at all, really. Dunno where to start."

"Well," Aziraphale began and sidled closer. "For something suitable for our standing, it _is_ best to go with a wedding planner. We'd make most of the decisions, of course, but they would ensure everything went smoothly."

Crowley nodded. "Cool, that sounds like a great idea. Do you know someone, or...?"

Aziraphale sighed. "My friends have plenty of suggestions, it seems."

“Well, that works out, then.”

Aziraphale tried to match the grin on Crowley’s face. If only he could feel as optimistic.

**Author's Note:**

> talk to me on tumblr @ineffable-anathema 
> 
> listen to the [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0q2ya8G8h2KFuTCSd0USbn)
> 
> check out the [pinterest board](https://www.pinterest.com.au/tashflora/its-in-the-stars/)
> 
> read my other GO fics right here on ao3!


End file.
